There were three exit doors. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. My heart misgives me. Best assured of that. 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. Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country.
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