“May I see his portrait? I may know him by sight; I may help you to be free.”
Kathleen Weir rose from her lowly position, and crossing the room, opened an unlocked marquetry cabinet.
“There used to be one here somewhere,” she said, “but I have not seen it for ages. The last time I saw it I remember I turned its face to the wall. Ah, here it is—yes, this is John Temple.” And she shook a little dust off the photograph as she spoke.
Webster eagerly crossed the room and took the photograph from her hand. For a moment he did not recognize the face; it was certainly not a copy of the same photograph that Miss Webster had shown him. It was a picture of a young man—almost a boy—but as he closely scanned the features he became convinced that the John Temple he was now gazing at was the same John Temple who had married May Churchill.
He muttered something between his teeth which made Kathleen Weir look quickly up in his face.
“Do you know anything of him?” she asked.
“I may; I don’t quite know. Will you let me keep this photograph for one day? I wish to compare it with another.”
“Keep it forever, if you like. How strange if you should know anything of John Temple!”
“There are many strange things in life.”
“That is true; strange sympathies; strange hidden ties. We are drawn to some people, are we not, and repelled by others? We are wonderful creatures.”