I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been
taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street.

About the expression of that pictured face was something which I cannot
describe--a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time both
attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features were
indelibly impressed upon my memory.

Next second, however, hearing Hornby's returning footsteps, I flung the
fragments hastily beneath the couch where I had discovered them.

Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed--and by whom?

The face of the empty frame had been purposely turned towards the
panelling, therefore when he entered he did not notice that the picture
had been destroyed; but after a brief pause, explaining that that cosy
little place was his wife's particular nook, he conducted me on through
the ladies' saloon and afterwards on deck, where we flung ourselves into
the long chairs, took our coffee and certosina, that liqueur essentially
Tuscan, and smoked on as the moon rose and the lights of the harbor
began to twinkle in the steely night.

As I sat talking, my thoughts ran back to that torn photograph. To me it
seemed as though some previous visitor that day had sat upon the couch,
destroyed the picture, and cast it where I had found it. But for what
reason? Who was the merry-faced girl whose picture had aroused such
jealousy or revenge?

I purposely led the conversation to Hornby's family, and learned from
him that he had no children.