the perusal of a clipping from the "Sentinel" had first shaken
the depths of her security.

As she opened the paper, her eyes, shrinking from the glaring
head-lines, "Widow of Boyne's Victim Forced to Appeal for Aid,"
ran down the column of text to two portraits inserted in it. The
first was her husband's, taken from a photograph made the year
they had come to England. It was the picture of him that she
liked best, the one that stood on the writing-table up-stairs in
her bedroom. As the eyes in the photograph met hers, she felt it
would be impossible to read what was said of him, and closed her
lids with the sharpness of the pain.

"I thought if you felt disposed to put your name down--" she
heard Parvis continue.

She opened her eyes with an effort, and they fell on the other
portrait. It was that of a youngish man, slightly built, in
rough clothes, with features somewhat blurred by the shadow of a
projecting hat-brim. Where had she seen that outline before?
She stared at it confusedly, her heart hammering in her throat
and ears. Then she gave a cry.

"This is the man--the man who came for my husband!"

She heard Parvis start to his feet, and was dimly aware that she
had slipped backward into the corner of the sofa, and that he was
bending above her in alarm. With an intense effort she
straightened herself, and reached out for the paper, which she
had dropped.