9. 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. Did you hear us through the archway, talking cookery?” They went up by the lift in silence. ” “Very well,” he said. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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