She knew now that the face in the portrait resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always dwelling.

The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite plainly.

The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became pale again.

The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her answer.
"I remember now, my lord----" she began.
"Young or old ?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.
"Young," replied Celia.
To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.
"Who is he ?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Celia.
"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows.

"Pardon me, I don't understand." Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that, light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.
"I don't know," she repeated, returning, suddenly, from that vision of the past.