th me as far as the end of Bishop's Road, endeavoring with
all the Italian's exquisite diplomacy to obtain from me what I knew
concerning the Leithcourts. But I told him nothing, nor did I reveal
that I had only that morning returned from Scotland. Then at last we
parted, and he retraced his steps to the little restaurant in Westbourne
Grove, while I entered a hansom and drove to the well-known
photographer's in New Bond Street, whose name had been upon the torn
photograph of the young girl in the white pique blouse and her hair
fastened with a bow of black ribbon, the picture that I had found on
board the _Lola_ on that memorable night in the Mediterranean, and a
duplicate of which I had seen in Muriel's cosy little room up at
Rannoch.

I recollected that she had told me the name of the original was Elma
Heath, and that she had been a schoolfellow of hers at Chichester.
Therefore I inquired of the photographer's lady-clerk whether she could
supply me with a print of the negative.

For a considerable time she searched in her books for the name, and at
last discovered it. Then she said:

"I regret, sir, that we can't give you a print, for the customer
purchased the negative at the time."

"Ah, I'm very sorry for that," I said. "To what address did you send
it?"

"The customer who ordered it was apparently a foreigner," she said, at
the same time turning round the ledger so that I could read. And I saw
that the entry was: "Heath--Miss Elma--3 dozen cabinets and negative.
Address: Baron Xavier Oberg, Vosnesenski Prospect 48, St. Petersburg,
Russia."

"Did this gentleman come with the young lady when her portrait was
taken?" I inquired.

"I can't tell, sir," she replied. "I've only been here a year, and you
see the date--over two years ago."

"The photographer would know, perhaps?"

"He's a new man, sir. He only came a month ago. In fact, the business
changed hands a year ago, and none of the previous employees have
remained."

"Ah! that's unfortunate," I said, greatly disappointed; and having
copied the address to which the negative and prints had been sent, I
thanked her and left.

Who, I wondered, was this Baron Oberg, and what relation was he to Elma
Heath?

The picture of the girl in the white blouse somehow exercised a strange
attraction for me.

Have you never experienced the fascination of a photograph, inexplicable
and yet forcible--a kind of magnetism from which you cannot release
yourself? Per