that this young girl had gone to Lawrence with anything but friendly intentions; and it was quite certain that something had happened to him, as she had predicted. One could only hope that it was not the something which she had in her mind's eye; and that, in any case, she had had no hand in the happening. As a clue to the lady's identity the letter did not carry one much forwarder.
As I was wondering what was the next step which I should take, a thought occurred to me—the photograph which I had taken from Lawrence's mantelshelf. I had it in the pocket of my coat. I took it out. It was an excellent likeness; the operator had caught her in a characteristic pose, and made of her a really artistic picture. But it was not with the likeness that I was at that moment concerned. I looked at the back of the portrait, to see by whom it had been taken. There was the name of one of the best London photographers in London. Eureka! the thing was done. I had only to go to the man's establishment to gain particulars of the original. Surely, when he had been told the circumstances of the case, he would not refuse to let me have them.
Filled with this idea I began to feverishly roll up the plum-coloured cloak. As I did so there came a rapping at the door.
