Guerchard looked at him, his brow knitted in a faint, pondering frown. Then the door opened, and Bonavent came in: “I’ve been through Victoire’s room,” he said, “and all I could find that might be of any use is this—a prayer-book. It was on her dressing-table just as she left it. The inspector hadn’t touched it.”
“What about it?” said Guerchard, taking the prayer-book.
“There’s a photograph in it,” said Bonavent. “It may come in useful when we circulate her description; for I suppose we shall try to get hold of Victoire.”
Guerchard took the photograph from the prayer-book and looked at it: “It looks about ten years old,” he said. “It’s a good deal faded for reproduction. Hullo! What have we here?”
The photograph showed Victoire in her Sunday best, and with her a boy of seventeen or eighteen. Guerchard’s eyes glued themselves to the face of the boy. He stared at it, holding the portrait now nearer, now further off. His eyes kept stealing covertly from the photograph to the face of the Duke.
The Duke caught one of those covert glances, and a vague uneasiness flickered in his eyes. Guerchard saw it. He came nearer to the Duke and looked at him earnestly, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” said the Duke. “What are you looking at so curiously? Isn’t my tie straight?” And he put up his hand and felt it.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Guerchard. And he studied the photograph again with a frowning face.
There was a noise of voices and laughter in the hall.
“Those people are going,” said the Duke. “I must go down and say good-bye to them.” And he rose and went out of the room.