I saw this clearly enough and once more thanked him for his timely gift. Then, having shaken his hand and sped him on his way, I entered the lobby and shut the outer door, at the same time transferring Thorndyke’s photograph from my letter-case to my jacket pocket. When I passed through into the studio I found Marion putting the finishing touches to a plaster case. She greeted me with a smile as I entered and then plunged her hand once more into the bowl of rapidly thickening plaster; whereupon I took the opportunity to lay the photograph on a side-bench as I walked towards the table on which she was working.
“Good afternoon, Marion,” said I.
“Good afternoon, Stephen,” she responded, adding, “I cannot shake hands until I have washed,” and held out her emplastered hands in evidence.
“That will be too late,” said I; and as she looked up at me inquiringly I stooped and kissed her.
“You are very resourceful,” she remarked with a smile and a warm blush, as she scooped up another handful of plaster; and then, as if to cover her slight confusion, she asked: “What was all that solemn powwow about with Mr. Polton? And why did he wait for you at the door in that suspicious manner? Had he some secret message for you?”
“I don’t know whether it was intended to be secret,” I answered; “but it isn’t going to be so far as you are concerned;” and I repeated to her the substance of Thorndyke’s message, to which she listened with an eagerness that rather surprised me, until her further inquiries explained it.
“This sounds rather encouraging,” she said; “as if Dr. Thorndyke had been making some progress in his investigations. I wonder if he has. Do you think he really knows much more than we do?”
“I am sure he does,” I replied; “but how much more, I cannot guess. He is extraordinarily close. But I have a feeling that the end is not so very far off. He seems to be quite hopeful of laying his hand on this villain.”
“Oh! I hope you are right, Stephen,” she exclaimed. “I have been getting so anxious. There has seemed to be no end to this deadlock. And yet it can’t go on indefinitely.”
“What do you mean, Marion?” I asked.
“I mean,” she answered, “that you can’t go on wasting your time here and letting your career go. Of course, it is delightful to have you here. I don’t dare to think what the place will be like without you. But it makes me wretched to think how much you are sacrificing for me.”
“I am not really sacrificing anything,” said I. “On the contrary, I am spending my time most profitably in the pursuit of knowledge and most happily in a sweet companionship which I wouldn’t exchange for anything in the world.”
“It is very nice of you to say that,” she said, “but, still, I shall be very relieved when the danger is over and you are free.”
“Free!” I exclaimed, “I don’t want to be free. When my apprenticeship has run out I am coming on as journeyman. And now I had better get my blouse on and start work.”
I went to the further end of the studio, and, taking the blouse down from its peg, proceeded to exchange it for my coat. Suddenly I was startled by a sharp cry, and, turning round, beheld Marion stooping over the photograph with an expression of the utmost horror.
“Where did this come from?” she demanded, turning a white, terror-stricken face on me.
“I put it there, Marion,” I answered somewhat sheepishly, hurrying to her side. “But what is the matter? Do you know the man?”
“Do I know him?” she repeated. “Of course I do. It is he—the man who came here that night.”
“Are you quite sure?” I asked. “Are you certain that it is not just a chance resemblance?”
She shook her head emphatically. “It is he, Stephen. I can swear to him. It is no mere resemblance. It is a likeness, and a perfect one, though it is such a bad photograph. But where did you get it? And why didn’t you show it to me when you came in?”
I told her how I came by it and explained Thorndyke’s instructions.
“Then,” she said, “Dr. Thorndyke knows who the man is.”
“He says he doesn’t, and he was very close and rather obscure as to how the photograph came into his possession.”
“It is very mysterious,” said she, with another terrified glance at the photograph. Then suddenly she snatched it up and with averted face held it out to me. “Put it away, Stephen,” she entreated. “I can’t bear the sight of that horrible face. It brings back afresh all the terrors of that awful night.”
I hastily returned the photograph to my letter-case, and, taking her arm, led her back to the worktable. “Now,” I said, “let us forget it and get on with our work;” and I proceeded to turn the case over and fix it in the new position with lumps of clay. For a little while she watched me in silence, and I could see by her pallor that she was still suffering from the shock of that unexpected encounter. But presently she picked up a scraper and joined me in trimming up the edges of the case, cutting out the “key-ways” and making ready for the second half; and by degrees her colour came back and the interest of the work banished her terrors.
We were, in fact, extremely industrious. We not only finished the case—it was an arm from the shoulder which was to be made—cut the pouring-holes, and
