Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury,
Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard,
and Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand them
to his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments.

I stood glancing around, and as I did so my eyes fell upon a quantity of
photographs, framed and unframed, that were scattered about--evidently
portraits of Hornby's friends. Upon a small side table, however, stood a
heavy oxidized silver frame, but empty, while lying on the floor beneath
a couch was the photograph it had contained, which had apparently been
taken hastily out, torn first in half and then in half again, and cast
away.

Curiosity prompted me to stoop, pick up the four pieces and place them
together, when I found them to form the cabinet portrait of a
sweet-looking and extremely pretty English girl of eighteen or nineteen,
with a bright, smiling expression, and wearing a fresh morning blouse of
white piqué. Her hair was dressed low and fastened with a bow of black
ribbon, while the brooch at her throat was in the form of a heart edged
with pearls. Whether it was her sweet expression, or whether the curious
look in her eyes had attracted my attention and riveted the face upon my
memory, I know not. Perhaps it was the mystery of why it should have
been so hastily torn from its frame and destroyed that held my
attention.

It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who
had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of
casting the fragments away through the port-hole into the water.