'Well, you see,' said Villiers slowly, while manipulating a cigar, 'I took a run over to Ostend, and there, as the devil would have it, at the Casino, and afterwards in the mail boat to Dover, I fell in with a charming Belgienne, an awfully pretty and seductive creature, who was on her way to London and quite alone. We had rather a pronounced flirtation, and exchanged photos—an act of greater folly on her part than on mine, as the event proved; for, after taking mine from my pocket-book (which she could see was full of notes), I never saw the latter again. I dropped asleep, but awoke when the tickets were collected—awoke to find that she had slipped out at some intermediate station, and the pocket-book, which I had placed in my breast-pocket, was gone too! There had been no one else in the carriage with me—indeed I had quietly tipped the guard to arrange it so. Thus, as no trace of it could be found, after the most careful search, she must have deftly abstracted it. Here is her photo—a deuced dear work of art to me!'
'She is pretty, indeed!' exclaimed Hammersley; 'such a quantity of beautiful fair hair!'
'It was dark golden.'
'Surely it was rash of her to give you this?'
'It was vanity, perhaps, when the idea of theft had not occurred to her.'
'Throw it in the fire.'
'Not at all.'
'What do you mean to do with it—preserve the likeness of a mere adventuress?'
'I shall give it to the police as a clue. It may lead to the recovery of my money, and, what is of more consequence to me, my correspondence.'
So the photo of the pretty Belgienne was handed over to the authorities; but neither Villiers nor Hammersley could quite foresee what it was to lead to.