It would not move. He pulled it out and pushed it in again, but it would not close completely. It did not really matter in the least. He had found the drawers open and there was no reason why this one should not remain so, but any one who has ever started to shut a drawer knows precisely how Peter felt. That drawer simply had to yield before he could go on with anything else ... and perhaps.... Peter jerked the drawer out, and dropped to his knees, while his right hand sought and found the flashlight in his pocket. There was a slight click, and a brilliant glare lit up the recess into which the drawer should have gone. Peter uttered a forcible exclamation, and stooping low, groped with his long fingers in the back of the recess, and drew out a small rectangle of stiff pasteboard. At some time it must have fallen from the upper drawer and remained, perhaps for years, undiscovered. It had evidently fallen slantwise across the corner of the back when the drawer was pulled out, and had been slightly damaged by Peter's efforts to close it. He automatically straightened a bent corner as he hastily took it over to the table where the bright light from the lamp could fall full upon it. Apparently, it was not an especially valuable treasure-trove. Just a small old carte-de-visite photograph of a little girl in a plain, somewhat countrified "best" dress of the last of the Nineties. She appeared to be about seven or eight years old, and the childish face, which looked up at Peter, was one of such transcendent loveliness that he, always a lover of children, caught his breath. Peter took an unmounted photograph from the breast pocket of his coat, and laid the two portraits, side by side, upon the table. There could be no doubt. They were the same, they must be the same. The gay, laughing, exquisite child's face had developed into that of a wonderful, sad, but equally beautiful woman. The great eyes, with their long, dark lashes, the small, straight nose, the curving lips, were the same. Only the expression was different, an unfathomable difference. The spirit behind the eyes must have undergone a complete metamorphosis to have made the apparent change. "It's Mary Blake, all right, all right. I'll bet my life on that," muttered Peter to himself. "Mary Blake----" Quickly he turned the little photograph over. There was no writing on the back, as he had hoped, instead, in elaborate, filigreed lettering was printed the words-- WALTER LORD, Photographer Hobart Falls, New York. "By gad," exclaimed Peter under his breath, bringing his closed fist softly but with emphasis down upon the table. "The first look-in we've had. The very first! Hobart Falls, New York. That's where she must have come from--or somewhere near there, at least.... And Walter Lord.... Who can tell what Walter Lord may know ... if he's still there--and alive."