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.