All this was at lunch. Amelia's niece, Dolly Lingfield, was there, as it happened; and I chanced to note a most guilty look stealing over her face all the while we were talking. Suspicious as I had learned to become by this time, however, I did not suspect Dolly of being in league with Colonel Clay; but, I confess, I wondered what her blush could indicate. After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly called me away from the rest into the library. "Uncle Seymour," she said to me--the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I am not in any way related to her--"_I_ have some photographs of Colonel Clay, if you want them." "_You_?" I cried, astonished. "Why, Dolly, how did you get them?" For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation in telling me. At last she whispered, "You won't be angry if I confess?" (Dolly is just nineteen, and remarkably pretty.) "My child," I said, "why _should_ I be angry? You may confide in me implicitly." (With a blush like that, who on earth could be angry with her?) "And you won't tell Aunt Amelia or Aunt Isabel?" she inquired somewhat anxiously. "Not for worlds," I answered. (As a matter of fact, Amelia and Isabel are the last people in the world to whom I should dream of confiding anything that Dolly might tell me.) "Well, I was stopping at Seldon, you know, when Mr. David Granton was there," Dolly went on; "--or, rather, when that scamp pretended he was David Granton; and--and--you won't be angry with me, will you?--one day I took a snap-shot with my kodak at him and Aunt Amelia!" "Why, what harm was there in that?" I asked, bewildered. The wildest stretch of fancy could hardly conceive that the Honourable David had been _flirting_ with Amelia. Dolly coloured still more deeply. "Oh, you know Bertie Winslow?" she said. "Well, he's interested in photography--and--and also in _me_. And he's invented a process, which isn't of the slightest practical use, he says; but its peculiarity is, that it reveals textures. At least, that's what Bertie calls it. It makes things come out so. And he gave me some plates of his own for my kodak--half-a-dozen or more, and--I took Aunt Amelia with them." "I still fail to see," I murmured, looking at her comically. "Oh, Uncle Seymour," Dolly cried. "How blind you men are! If Aunt Amelia knew she would never forgive me. Why, you _must_ understand. The--the rouge, you know, and the pearl powder!" "Oh, it comes out, then, in the photograph?" I inquired. "Comes out! I should _think_ so! It's like little black spots all over auntie's face. _such_ a guy as she looks in it!" "And Colonel Clay is in them too?" "Yes; I took them when he and auntie were talking together, without either of them noticing. And Bertie developed them. I've three of David Granton. Three beauties; _most_ successful." "Any other character?" I asked, seeing business ahead. Dolly hung back, still redder. "Well, the rest are with Aunt Isabel," she answered, after a struggle.