Explore "The Black Abbot" by Edgar Wallace on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
And that was all the other cylinders contained, he thought, with a gleam of satisfaction. Whoever had watched him -- and he suspected Arthur Gwyn naturally -- had had the same disappointment.
It was in this room that the old monks had stored their ancient music. There was a certain grim humour in the thought of how he had spent his night and the reward for it.