Suddenly he stretched out a forefinger.
"You have, perhaps, a photograph of the young lady in that card-case in your breast-pocket." Wethermill flushed red, and, drawing out the card-case, handed the portrait to Hanaud.

Hanaud looked at it carefully for a few moments.
"It was taken lately, here ?" he asked.
"Yes; for me," replied Wethermill quietly.
"And it is a good likeness ?" "Very." "How long have you known this Mlle.

Celie ?" he asked.
Wethermill looked at Hanaud with a certain defiance.
"For a fortnight." Hanaud raised his eyebrows.
"You met her here ?" "Yes." "In the rooms, I suppose?
Not at the house of one of your friends ?" "That is so," said Wethermill quietly.

"A friend of mine who had met her in Paris introduced me to her at my request." Hanaud handed back the portrait and drew forward his chair nearer to Wethermill.

His face had grown friendly.