‘He was tall and thin. I should think about five-and-thirty, with a face that was at once handsome and peculiar; a narrow oval face with a low forehead, an aquiline nose, a complexion pale to sallowness—like ivory that has yellowed with age—and the blackest eyes I ever saw.’ ‘And black hair that grew downward into a peak in the centre of the forehead,’ cried Geoffrey breathlessly. ‘What, you know him, then?’ exclaimed Lady Baker. ‘I believe I met with him in the backwoods of America; your description both of the man and of his style of music precisely fits the man I am thinking of. That peculiarity about the form of the hair upon the forehead seems too much for a coincidence. I wonder what became of that man?’ he added, thinking aloud. ‘Let me finish my story, and then I will show you Mr. Vandeleur’s photograph,’ said Lady Baker. ‘You have a photograph of him?’ cried Geoffrey; ‘how lucky!’ ‘Yes; and my possession of that portrait arises from the merest accident. I had a couple of photographers about the place at the time of Mr. Vandeleur’s visits, photographing the gardens and ferneries for me, and one afternoon I took it into my head to have my guests photographed. We had been drinking tea in the river-garden, and I sent for the men and told them to arrange us in a group for a photograph. They pulled us about and moved and fidgeted us till we were all half worn out; but they ultimately produced half-a-dozen very fair groups, in a modern Watteau style, and Janet and Mr. Vandeleur are striking figures in all the groups. But this is anticipating events. I’ll show you the photos by and by.’ ‘I await your ladyship’s pleasure,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and am calm as a statue of Patience; but I would bet even money that this Vandeleur is the self-same scoundrel Lucius Davoren and I fell in with in America.’