The girl bent down and opened up one of her hand-bags, bringing out a large photograph, pasted on a creamy-coloured, gay-looking cardboard mount. She handed it to Jim, searching his face with her tear-dimmed eyes.
Jim gazed at it in bewilderment. Then he scratched his head and gazed again.
“Ain’t that your picture?” the young lady asked. “Don’t tell me that it ain’t, for it wouldn’t be true; and I came all this way because you wrote so nice and looked so big and good. I––I didn’t think you was a bluffer like––like other men.”
Her breath caught and she began to sob.
“My dear lassie,––I am bewildered,––confounded. I––I–––That is my photo, but where in all the world did ye get it from?”
The girl looked at him a little angrily, for she had pluck in plenty.
“Where do you think? I ain’t stole it. You sent it to me. Where else could I get it?”
Jim stood foolishly.
“I certainly never sent it. Why, woman!––I never saw ye before. I don’t know your name even. I––I–––