The photographer consulted his book closely, and replied: “The prints appear to have been sent to Miss Henniker, 79 Gloucester Square, Hyde Park.”
Upon my shirt cuff I scribbled the address, and having paid for both the portraits, was about to leave, congratulating myself that at last I had probably obtained a clue to the house to which I had been conducted, when it suddenly occurred to me to ask the date when the photographs were taken.
“They were taken on January 12th last,” he replied.
“Last year, you mean,” I said.
“No, the present year. This ledger was only commenced in January.”
“What?” I cried amazed. “Were these portraits actually taken only six weeks ago? Impossible! The lady has been dead fully three months.”
“The originals of the portraits gave us sittings here on the date I have mentioned,” he said, handing me the packet courteously, putting aside the frame, and leaving me in order to attend to another customer.
The announcement was incredible. It staggered belief. Emerging from the shop, I jumped into a cab and gave the man the address in Gloucester Square. Then, as we drove along, I took out the photograph of my well-beloved and examined it for a long time closely. Yes, there was no mistake about her identity. The same sweet, well-remembered face, with its clear, trusting eyes looked out upon me, the same half-sad expression that had so puzzled me. I raised the cold, polished card to my lips and reverently kissed it. Presently the cab drew up suddenly, and I found myself before a wide portico extending across the pavement to the curb, in front of a rather gloomy, solid-looking mansion. Alighting, I crossed to the door, and as I did so counted the steps. There were three, the same number that I remembered ascending on that eventful night I had raised my hand to ring the visitors’ bell when suddenly a voice behind me uttered my name. It sounded familiar, and I looked round hastily. As I turned, the Countess of Fyneshade, warmly clad in smart sealskin coat and neat seal toque trimmed with sable, confronted me. Standing upon the pavement beneath the wide gloomy portico, she was smiling amusedly at the sudden start I had given on hearing my name.
“I declare you’ve turned quite pale, Stuart,” she cried with that gay, irresponsible air and high-pitched voice habitual to her. “You gave such a jump when I spoke that one would think you had been detected in the act of committing a burglary, or some other crime equally dreadful.”
“I really beg your pardon,” I exclaimed quickly, descending the steps and raising my hat. “I confess I didn’t notice you.” Then, for the first time, I observed standing a few yards from her a slim, well-dressed young man in long dark overcoat and silk hat.