“What do you make of it?” she went on. “I don’t know a word of German, but it seems to be the name of a place.” Fayre came slowly back to the table and picked up the envelope. His face had regained its normal colour and there was nothing in his manner to show that he had just had, perhaps, the greatest shock of his life. He was a good German scholar, but he did not enlighten Miss Allen as to the full meaning of the inscription he had just read. “It seems to have come from a place called Schleefeldt,” he said, examining the envelope narrowly as he spoke. “You’ve no idea, I suppose, how your sister got it?” “None. She had no connection with Germany that I know of, either before or after the war, though she may have been there when she was abroad. She was on the Continent a good deal and had a good many friends there. There was nothing in the box that seemed to have any connection with the photograph. It was lying on the top, in the envelope, just as you saw it, when I first came on it.” “We may take it, then, that it was probably one of the last things she put into the box,” suggested Fayre. “It looked like it, certainly.” Fayre picked up the topmost packet of receipts and pulled one out. It was dated 1926. “You don’t know at all when your sister last asked for this box at the bank?” he asked. Miss Allen shook her head. “I could find out, I suppose. But I do know that my sister only sent it to the bank with her plate when she left her London flat about two months ago, so that she had access to it up till then. I believe she stayed on in town for a bit after giving up her flat, so she may have had the box out again. Do you want me to find out?” “It’s very kind of you, but I don’t think it’s necessary. There’s no date on the envelope; evidently it is just an unused one that she slipped the photograph into for safety and I was trying to get a clue as to when she is likely to have received the photograph. As it was at the top and as the receipts under it are for 1926, it looks as if she had put the photograph in fairly recently.” “Does it suggest anything to you?” she asked. “It bears an extraordinary resemblance to a man I firmly believe to be dead,” said Fayre slowly. “Of course, it probably is only a chance likeness, but it is so strong that I am going to ask you whether I may borrow the photograph for a day or two.” “Of course,” agreed Miss Allen readily. “Keep it as long as you like. If, later, I come across anything that throws any light on it, I’ll let you know, but I think I’ve been through all my sister’s papers now.” Fayre stowed the envelope and its content carefully away in his breast pocket. He stayed chatting with Miss Allen for a minute or two and then took his leave. As he was saying good-by he remembered a question he had meant to put to her. “By the way, you could not tell me anything about the death of your sister’s first husband, I suppose?”