Austin Ambrose sprung to his feet, and his hand slid like a snake into the bosom of his coat.
"Seen—seen——!" he exclaimed, hoarsely.
"Yes," said Blair, whose back was turned toward him, and who did not see his white face and the movement of his hand; "yes, I have seen her in a picture."
Austin Ambrose dropped into the chair again, and lifting the glass to his lips took a good draught.
"In a picture, my dear Blair! You—you startled me! In a picture! A face that resembled hers. My dear old fellow, you are too sensitive. You must, really you must, fight against these feelings. They are ruining your life. In a picture——"
"Yes; not a face like hers, but her very own. I saw a picture"—and he stood and held out his hand as if he were pointing to it—"of Margaret, of my poor darling herself—lying on the Long Rock at Appleford!" his voice broke, and he turned away.
Austin Ambrose looked at him.
"He is going mad!" he thought.
"My dear Blair, impossible! This is the freak of a mind overwrought by sorrow and too much dwelling on the past. It is impossible. Where did you see this wonderful picture? I should like to see it."