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. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. Gerald frowned. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally.
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