Anna’s face however was wholly impassive. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. Only I just want him. 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. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. It is very important because I have lost my proof.
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