"Only a few papers," said Boris, crossly.
"Pardon me," said the baronet, "if I am not mistaken you have found something that seems of interest to you. Be kind enough to hand it to me."
The Russian turned about, and with a carefully-manicured hand offered Paul a photograph which Paul had seen protruding from his pocket.
Paul took it and looked at it casually, though the muscles on his closed jaws stood out in a manner that was not wholly pleasant to look upon. It was, however, with unfathomable eyes that he surveyed the portrait before him.
The photograph revealed the features of a girl with an astonishingly quiet face. Her cheeks were round and soft, and her chin was round and soft, too, but her mouth, a little full and pronounced, was distinctly sad and set. A pair of large eyes looked out upon the world unwaveringly and serenely, if a little sorrowfully, beneath a pair of finely pencilled, level brows, which formed, as it were, a little bar of inflexible resolve. A mass of dark hair was coiled upon the girl's head after the manner of early Victorian heroines. It was a face at once striking and wistful in its splendour.
Paul looked up from the picture to Ivanovitch.
"You," he said simply, "know everybody hereabouts. Therefore I feel confident that you will be able to tell me the name of this girl. That is all I ask you—at present."
Boris laughed and then checked his laughter.
"The lady," he said, "is Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, who, as you are probably aware, lives no great distance away."
"So!" murmured Paul, and he nodded his head.