"
"He came into this room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," she responded, with just a slight hesitation, I thought.
"This was the room where he stayed the longest. There was a photograph
in that frame over there," she added, indicating the frame that had held
the picture of Elma Heath, "a portrait of a young lady, which he begged
me to give him."
"And you gave it to him?" I cried quickly.
"Well--yes, sir. He begged so hard for it, saying that it was the
portrait of a friend of his."
"And he gave you something handsome for it--eh?"
The young woman, whom I knew could not refuse half-a-sovereign, colored
slightly and smiled.
"And who put that picture in its place?" I asked.
"I did, sir. I found it upstairs."
"He didn't tell you who the young lady was, I suppose?"
"No, sir. He only said that that was the only photograph that existed,
and that she was dead."
"Dead!" I gasped, staring at her.
"Yes, sir. That was why he was so anxious for the picture."
Elma Heath dead! Could it be true? That sweet-pictured face haunted me
as no other face had ever impressed itself upon my memory.
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