He tore off the shawl, and some brown paper beneath it, lifted the thing upon the table, so that the light of the one candle fell upon it, and held it there.
Slowly his face, which had been deeply flushed before, lost all its colour; his jaw dropped a little.
He was staring at the picture of himself which he had painted for Phoebe in the parlour of the Green Nab Cottage thirteen years before. The young face, in its handsome and arrogant vigour, the gypsy-black hair and eyes, the powerful shoulders in the blue serge coat, the sunburnt neck exposed by the loose, turn-down collar above the greenish tie—there they were, as he had painted them, lying once more under his hand. The flickering light of the candle showed him his signature and the date.
He laid it down and drew a long breath. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he stood staring at it, his brain, under the sharp stimulus, beginning to work more clearly. So Phoebe, too, was alive—and in England. The picture was her token. That was what it meant.
He went heavily to the door, unlocked it, and called. The charwoman appeared.
'Who brought this parcel?'
'A boy, sir.'
'Where's the note?—he must have brought something with it.'
'No, he didn't, sir—there was no note.'
'Don't be absurd!' cried Fenwick. 'There must have been.'