In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. "And so, you really suspected me?" murmured Mrs. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. I could be presented as Meysey Hill. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed.
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