An assistant came forward to greet me, as I crossed the threshold of the building which housed that famous firm of photographers. “I want you to tell me who is the original of one of your portraits.” “We don’t, as a rule, sir, give the names of sitters, without their express permission.” “This is one of the exceptions to the rule. Here is the portrait--who is the lady it represents?” I handed him the photograph which I had taken off Edwin Lawrence’s mantelshelf. So soon as he saw it he smiled; looking up at me with what was suspiciously like a twinkle in his eye. “As you say, this is one of the exceptions to the rule. I certainly have no objection to tell you who this lady is; that is, if you don’t know already. In which case I should imagine that you are one of the few persons in London who does not.” “What on earth do you mean? Who is the lady?” “You are not a theatre-goer, sir?” “Why do you say that? I suppose I go to the theatres as often as other people.” “You haven’t been to the Pandora lately.” “The Pandora? I’ve been there three times within the last month or so.” “Then, on the occasion of your visits was Miss Bessie Moore not acting?” “Miss Bessie Moore!” “This is the portrait of Miss Bessie Moore, and an excellent likeness, too. She has honoured us several times with sittings, and this is about the most favourable result we have had so far. It is not easy to do justice to the lady.” Bessie Moore! The assistant was a much smaller man than I; but if, at that moment, he had given me a push, though ever such a gentle one, I believe he would have pushed me over. What an idiot I had been! No wonder that her face had seemed familiar. Bessie Moore--admittedly one of the loveliest women in town, whose name was on every tongue, who was honoured by all the world! At that moment her acting was drawing all London to the Pandora Theatre. I had seen something of theatres, whatever that assistant might suppose to the contrary, but I had never before seen such acting as hers, nor had I ever seen so lovely a woman! And it was Bessie Moore who had come through my bedroom window, at dead of night, in that plum-coloured cloak. Every moment the wonder grew. Either the expression of my face or something else about me appeared to afford that assistant considerable amusement. In the midst of my bewilderment I was conscious that he grinned. “You look surprised,” he said. “It is possible for persons of even ripened years to feel surprised, as you will discover when you yourself attain to years of discretion.” I fancy that it was my intention to crush that smiling youngster, though I suspect that the result of my little effort was only to increase my appearance of imbecility. At any rate, his grin did not grow less. I proceeded with my inquiries. “What is Miss Moore’s address?” “The Pandora Theatre.” “Thank you; I am aware of that. It is her private address which I require.” “That, I am afraid, we cannot give you.”