Then she hurried back to her little sitting-room, the kindly bosom rising and falling as she faithfully pursued the wondrous treatment. Gaining the room, she immediately rang the bell, and a moment later the partially recovered butler stood before her. He, too, had had a treatment; for which cause he breathed as lightly as the demands of nature would permit.
"Hand me that box from my secretary, Barlow—that ebony box."
He obeyed; and Miss Farringall held it a moment in her hands, then adjusted a tiny key and turned the lock. A queer little tremor rippled over her lips as the thin fingers groped a moment at the very bottom of the box. Those same fingers showed just the least unsteadiness as they released the dim gold clasp that bound a jet-black frame, which, opening, disclosed the portrait of a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. She held it musingly in front of her a moment. Then she held it out towards Barlow, who promptly moved forward like some statue out-marching from its niche, his arms rigid by his side.
"You've never seen that before, Barlow?"
"No, mum."
"Who do you think it's like, Barlow?"
"I couldn't say, mum."
"Don't you think it resembles that visitor of ours—that young man Dr. Wallis brought this evening?"
"Yes, mum," Barlow assented, almost before she had finished her question.
"Do you think it very much like him, Barlow?"