moment, I'll light up.'

A light flickered up in the dark. Shading it in his hand from the
night air straying through the open window, Herbert lit the two candles that
stood upon the little chimneypiece behind Lawford's
head. Then sauntering over to the window again, almost as if with
an affectation of nonchalance, he drew one of the shutters, and
sat down. 'Nothing much struck me,' he went on, leaning back on
his hands, 'I mean on Sunday evening, until you said good-bye. It
was then that I caught in the moon a distinct glimpse of your
face.'

'This,' said Lawford, with a sudden horrible sinking of the
heart.

Herbert nodded. 'The fact is, I have a print of it,' he said.

'A print of it?'

'A miserable little dingy engraving.'

'Of this?' Herbert nodded, with eyes fixed. 'Where?'

'That's the nuisance. I searched high and low for it the instant
I got home. For the moment it has been mislaid; but it must be
somewhere in the house and it will turn up all in good time. It's
the frontispiece of one of a queer old hotchpotch of pamphlets,
sewn up together by some amateur enthusiast in a marbled paper
cover--confessions, travels, trials and so on. All eighteenth
century, and all in French.'