THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
about it. It hung just above the top of the wall lounge. It was in this obscure place doubtless because it was more or less unimportant among such a galaxy.
As he knelt upon the lounge for a closer scrutiny he felt thunder in his ears. He remained kneeling there, in an unchanging attitude, for several minutes, until a hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned.
"What interests you so intently?" asked Chittenden.
"That photograph. Who is it?"
Chittenden took the photograph from the wall and looked at the back.
"Daniel Morris, an old-timer. Rather pathetic story. Died in 1870, on the morning after his first appearance in New York. For ten years he had struggled to get into New York, and then to die when he got here!"
"He is really dead?"
"Oh yes. They found him dead in his bed the next morning. He certainly was a handsome beggar, and would have become a great actor had he lived. I don't suppose there is another photo of him extant. Come on into the dining-room and have a nip."
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