"Only because Miss Huxham mentioned it when you appeared just now."
"And I mentioned it to you before," Bella reminded him. "I told you how Durgo entered the Bleacres drawing-room and took your photograph, frame and all, from his pocket, and handed it to the girl."
"I thought that it was one of my master, Edwin Lister, taken when he was younger," he said simply, "but I see——"
"Yes! yes!" broke in Cyril impatiently. "I know what you see. I am a younger edition of my father."
"Yes! yes! yes!" cried Durgo, staring again. "Never did I see two so alike."
Bella glanced at the photograph and slipped it into her pocket. Her face was pearly white, and she dreaded the full explanation of what was to come. "We are still perplexed," she said quietly, and controlling herself with great difficulty. "You know nothing of Durgo, and he knows nothing of you. I think it will be best for us to sit down and discuss the matter quietly."
"I agree with you," said Cyril, dropping down promptly. "Durgo, tell your story and then I shall tell mine. When we each know what the other knows, we may be able to arrive at some conclusion."
"Regarding the murder," said Bella. "Perhaps," she added hopefully, "perhaps your father did not kill mine after all."
"I fear he did," said Cyril heavily. "Remember what was said at the inquest about the West African knife with which the crime was committed. Nigeria is in West Africa."
"My master had no knife of that sort," said Durgo bluntly.