Guerchard turned to the telephone. “Are you there?” he said. “Can you hear me clearly? ... I want to know who was in your hot-house yesterday ... who could have gathered some of your pink salvias?” “I told you that it was I,” said the Duke. “Yes, yes, I know,” said Guerchard. And he turned again to the telephone. “Yes, yesterday,” he said. “Nobody else? ... No one but the Duke of Charmerace? ... Are you sure?... quite sure?... absolutely sure? ... Yes, that’s all I wanted to know ... thank you.” He turned to the Duke and said, “Did you hear that, your Grace? The gardener says that you were the only person in his hot-houses yesterday, the only person who could have plucked any pink salvias.” “Does he?” said the Duke carelessly. Guerchard looked at him, his brow knitted in a faint, pondering frown. Then the door opened, and Bonavent came in: “I’ve been through Victoire’s room,” he said, “and all I could find that might be of any use is this—a prayer-book. It was on her dressing-table just as she left it. The inspector hadn’t touched it.” “What about it?” said Guerchard, taking the prayer-book. “There’s a photograph in it,” said Bonavent. “It may come in useful when we circulate her description; for I suppose we shall try to get hold of Victoire.” Guerchard took the photograph from the prayer-book and looked at it: “It looks about ten years old,” he said. “It’s a good deal faded for reproduction. Hullo! What have we here?” The photograph showed Victoire in her Sunday best, and with her a boy of seventeen or eighteen. Guerchard’s eyes glued themselves to the face of the boy. He stared at it, holding the portrait now nearer, now further off. His eyes kept stealing covertly from the photograph to the face of the Duke. The Duke caught one of those covert glances, and a vague uneasiness flickered in his eyes. Guerchard saw it. He came nearer to the Duke and looked at him earnestly, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “What’s the matter?” said the Duke. “What are you looking at so curiously? Isn’t my tie straight?” And he put up his hand and felt it. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Guerchard. And he studied the photograph again with a frowning face. There was a noise of voices and laughter in the hall. “Those people are going,” said the Duke. “I must go down and say good-bye to them.” And he rose and went out of the room. Guerchard stood staring, staring at the photograph. The Duke ran down the stairs, and said goodbye to the millionaire’s guests. After they had gone, M. Gournay-Martin went quickly up the stairs; Germaine and the Duke followed more slowly.