"It's a long time since I have heard of her," said Thresk. He looked
again at the photograph.

"When was this taken?"

"A few months ago. She sent it to me in October. She is beautiful, don't
you think?"

"Yes."

But it was not the beauty of the girl who had ridden along the South
Downs with him eight years ago. There was more of character in the face
now, less, much less, of youth and none of the old gaiety. The open
frankness had gone. The big dark eyes which looked out straight at
Thresk as he stood before them had, even in that likeness, something of
aloofness and reserve. And underneath, in a contrast which seemed to him
startling, there was her name signed in the firm running hand in which
she had written the few notes which passed between them during that
month in Sussex. Thresk looked back again at the photograph and then
resumed his seat.

"Tell me about her, Mrs. Carruthers," he said. "You hear from her often?"

"Oh no! Stella doesn't write many letters, and I don't know her
very well."

"But you have her photograph," said Thresk, "and signed by her."

"Oh yes. She stayed with me last Christmas, and I simply made her get her