"Doris," he said to himself; "but how comes she here?"
He saw the white hands that he remembered last as folded in death; he saw the white, graceful breast that had been disfigured by that terrible wound.
"My darling Doris," he said; "how came you here?"
He was standing there, with tears in his eyes, when Mr. Leslie entered the room.
"I should like to ask a few questions about that picture, Mr. Leslie," he said, courteously. "Is it for sale?"
"I can hardly say; I have had a very large bid for it. It was purchased some time since by one of our merchant princes, who has since failed, and I bought the picture at his sale; since then I have been offered a large sum for it."
"It is my daughter's portrait," said the earl, calmly. "I cannot see how it came into your possession."
"I painted it," said Mr. Leslie.
"You did! Where did you see my daughter?"
Then the artist told him the whole story of his going to Brackenside, and the earl told him the story of Lady Doris Studleigh's childhood.