The frame, a double one, also contained the portrait of a young pleasant-faced man of about twenty-five, who wore his moustache carefully curled, and about whose features was a rather foreign expression. The picture of my dead love riveted my attention, and as I stood gazing at it with my face glued to the glass, Jack chaffed me, saying:
“What’s the matter, old chap? Who’s the beauty?” His flippant words annoyed me.
“A friend,” I snapped. “Wait for me. I’m going in to buy it.”
“On the stage, I suppose?” he hazarded. “Awfully good-looking, whoever she is.”
“No, she’s not on the stage,” I answered brusquely, leaving him and entering the shop.
At my request the frame was brought out of the window, and in response to my inquiries regarding it the manager referred to his books, an operation which occupied considerable time. Meanwhile Jack, who had found Dora, had rushed in, announced his intention of calling on me in the evening, and left.
At last the photographer’s manager came to me, ledger in hand, saying: “Both photographs were taken at the same time. I remember quite distinctly that the young lady accompanied the gentleman, and it was at her expense and special request that they were framed together and exhibited in our window. The prints were taken hurriedly because the gentleman was going abroad and wanted to take one with him.”
“What name did they give?”
“Henniker.”
“And the address?” I demanded breathlessly.