“The mail, Miss Ethel,” announced Charles from the hall, and Ethel hastened over to the door, returning to Lois an instant later with a letter.
“Go on, Lois, I am listening,” she urged, tearing open the envelope. “What is this?” her voice changing as her eyes fell on a torn and ragged photograph.
It was the upper half of a man’s face, and as Ethel studied the fine eyes, wavy black hair and straight nose, an exclamation escaped her. “Why it might be Julian, taken years ago, before his hair turned gray at the temples.”
Lois looked at the photograph attentively, then sat bolt upright. “I’ve seen that before,” she announced excitedly. “Jim Patterson received it during the dinner just before the fire; and in opening the envelope the picture fell into my lap, face uppermost, and but that he wore a beard in the photograph I should have known instantly that it was Julian Barclay.”
“Really?” Ethel stared perplexedly at the torn photograph and then examined the envelope. “Why should this scrap have been sent to me? There is no name on the envelope, no card or message, and the address is typewritten.”
“I can’t imagine,” Lois rubbed her hands excitedly together. “Jim said that he had ordered the letter forwarded to him as it was important.”
“Did Julian see Jim receive the letter?”
“Yes, and the picture as well; for he caught the photograph as it slid out of my lap.”
“Oh!” Ethel covered her face, then dropped her hand disclosing such misery that Lois cried out. “Hush! Lois, before dinner, I found Julian and Jim quarreling, and Jim threatened to expose Julian—for what I don’t know. Perhaps this photograph had something to do with the exposure—it was evidently taken years ago.”
“True. And Julian saw the photograph, saw exposure imminent and——”