Ireton," cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, "before you take me hence, I implore you—if you would further the ends of justice—search this house. " "But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable dog-talk. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. They are horrible.
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