Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. 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.
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