and strong rather than cheerful, but now the expression of his
countenance was forbidding.

He looked at Max, glanced down the stairs, and nodded without a smile.

"Hello!" said he, with the letter of familiarity, but without its
spirit. "Haven't seen anything of you for a century. Up in town again,
eh?"

"Yes. Can't I come in?" said Max.

Dudley had come outside instead of inviting his friend in. At these
words, however, he turned abruptly, and himself led the way into the
little ante-chamber.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes, come in, of course. Come in."

Max accepted the cool invitation in silence, shut the door behind him,
and followed his friend into the sitting-room, where the table was laid
for a solitary dinner.

But it was the writing-table which caught the eye of Max and riveted his
attention. For a photograph lay there, a woman's photograph, and as it
was just in front of the chair Dudley had been using, as if he had been
occupied in looking at it, it was not unnatural that the brother of
Doreen should be curious to know whose picture it was.

So Max got around the table quickly by the opposite way to that which
Dudley took, and threw himself into a chair by the writing-table in such
a position that he could see what was on it. And he saw two things: One