At that opportune moment some one interrupted them. Mr. 175 Tudor had not time to open the portrait and examine it then, and, placing it securely in his private desk, he courteously bade Mr. Hurlhurst good-afternoon; adding, if he should find a possible clew, he would let him know at once, or, perhaps, take a run up to Whitestone Hall to look around a bit among the old inhabitants of that locality.
It was almost time for quitting the office for the night, when the detective thought of the portrait. He untied the faded blue ribbon, and touched the spring; the case flew open, revealing a face that made him cry out in amazement:
“Pshaw! people have a strange trick of resembling each other very often,” he muttered; “I must be mistaken.”
Yet the more he examined the fair, bewitching face of the portrait, with its childish face and sunny, golden curls, the more he knit his brow and whistled softly to himself––a habit he had when thinking deeply.
He placed the portrait in his breast-pocket, and walked slowly home. A brilliant idea was in his active brain.
“I shall soon see,” he muttered.
His wife met him at the door, and he saw that her eyes were red with weeping.
“What is the commotion, my dear?” he asked, hanging his hat and coat on the hat-rack in the hall. “What’s the difficulty?”
“Our protégée has gone, Harvey; she––”
“Gone!” yelled the detective, frantically, “where did she go? How long has she been gone?”