The cigarette case, which Rainham handed to his guest, was a well-worn leather one, a somewhat ladylike article, with a photograph fitted into the dividing flap inside. Before answering the question he looked at the photograph absently for a moment, when the case had been returned to him.
"It's not a very good photograph. It's meant for—for Mrs. Lightmark, when she was a little girl. She gave me the case with the portrait years ago, in Florence."
Oswyn glanced at him curiously and shrewdly through a thin haze of blue smoke, watching him restore the faded, little receptacle almost reverentially to the breast-pocket of his coat.
"Have you been to the Chamber of Horrors?" he asked suddenly, after a silent pause, broken only by the ceaseless lashing of the window by the raindrops.
Rainham looked up with a start, half puzzled, seeking and finding an explanation in the faint, conscious humour which loosened the lines about the speaker's mouth.
"The Chamber of—— Do you mean the R.A.? You do, you most irreverent of mortals! No, I have not been yet. Will you go with me?"
"Heaven forbid! I have been once."
"You have? And they didn't scalp you?"
"I didn't stay long enough, I suppose. I only went to see one picture—Lightmark's."
"Ah, that's just what I want to see! And you know I still have a weakness for the show. I expect you would like the new Salon better."