A box of faded photographs and yellowing kodak pictures amused him for a while with their rustic delineations; but he was about to throw them aside at last, when one attracted his attention at a second glance, and a stifled cry burst from his lips:
“Heavens, it is Doctor Rupert himself!”
The picture was of a man’s face and shoulders framed in the window of the very room where he was now—evidently a snapshot taken while he was not aware. It was cleverly done, and no one could mistake it, though Doctor Rupert’s flowing locks were much longer now.
Doctor St. Clair carried it downstairs with him, and, finding the hostess alone preparing breakfast, held it out to her, exclaiming:
“How did you get Doctor Ludington’s picture?”
“Tain’t him! I wouldn’t have the grand vilyun’s picter in my house!” she replied, with a sniff of scorn.
He was well aware from their talk last night that they sympathized with the Groves family, and detested the Ludingtons. Every family in the county was a partisan on one side or the other.
“It’s the image of Doctor Ludington,” he repeated, just as the ferryman stumped heavily in, demanding:
“What is it you’re saying of?”
“I said this is the image of Doctor Ludington. Did you ever see him?”