While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. "Do you mean to tell me he's come and gone in an hour? What the devil kind of a father is he?" Spurlock shook his head. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Your own safety—the child's safety—depends upon your candour.
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