“I should like to have his photograph to show at Scotland Yard.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
Her face was scarlet now. Her forehead was burning. An acute and horrible sense of shame possessed her, seemed to be wrapped round her like a stinging garment.
“I’ve—I’ve never had a photograph of him,” she said.
After a short pause Sir Seymour said:
“You’ve got his address.”
The words seemed a statement as he said them.
“Yes,” she said.
“Will you kindly write it down for me?”
“Yes.”