“What is that?” said I.
“The portrait of my mother,” he said, and the tear stood in his eye.
“Let me see it,” said I, taking hold of it; and examining it, I found that he had told me what was false. It was the portrait of a young woman, not above twenty years of age, with long black ringlets—exceedingly beautiful, of course—they all are in the velvet-coated case; but as I am no despiser of a good face, I may admit she was really a fair creature,—ay, even as regards beauty, such a one as a man with more love than duty would even forge for.
“Why,” said I, “this is the portrait of a young lady. Why did you tell me a lie?”
He paused for a moment. His heart got big, all his hardness had gone, and with a choking voice he said, “I don’t want it to be known that she was connected with me, or ever saw me. So for God’s sake give it me back.”
I saw the impolicy of complying with this request, and put the miniature in my waistcoat pocket.
“No,” said I, “you deny the forgery, and this face may lead me to a witness!”
“Never!” he cried, “she is too innocent to know aught of evil.”
“Be it so,” said I; “I will make no improper use of it, and whatever may happen, I promise to return it to you.”
With this he seemed satisfied,—and we took him up to the Office, where he was locked up in a cell, with but little light, and where, I fear, in the dark hours he would see, in the magic lantern of a criminal’s fancy, many more familiar faces than that of the mysterious original of the portrait. A mother’s, at all events, would not fail to be illuminated there.