A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise.
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