Somewhat clumsily Lindsay extricated the leather case, cursing his awkwardness and the patience of the man.
A worn little photograph of a boy of eight or nine was in his hand; across the bottom was scrawled in a childish hand, "Daddy, from your son James."
He drew a long breath.
"That's Jimmy, all right," he said dully.
"If you'll just tear it up," said the man. "It's all I've got, and nobody'd know but some friend that—that would be lookin' for the likeness."
Lindsay threw the picture on the floor.
"I won't believe it—its too sickening!" he cried, "Jim Wardwell's a gentleman! I—I—why I admired him more than—good God, he's a friend of mine!"
The man smiled faintly.
"Oh, Jimmy has fine friends," he said almost complacently, "he's always gone with the best. He's very particular."
Lindsay's forehead was a network of pain and doubt.