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Rosamund; to score in the game of wits; to keep what she had planned to take from him—and in order to win he had mortgaged all his future. Now that the game was won, he had no pleasure in it. He did not care whether he was a beggar or not. He saw himself tied to a stranger, and all that he wanted was to be rid of her as quickly as possible.
    Nan gave a little nod.
    â€œVery well,” she said.
    Then she came up to him with her hand out.
    â€œGood-bye.”
    For the second time that morning their hands touched. He said “Good-bye” with an air of relief. Then, with her hand still in his, she looked past him and saw the photograph. It hung with other groups above the mantelshelf. Nan did not see the other groups at all. She saw a lawn set about with trees; an old man in a chair—Mr Ambrose Weare, whom she had seen once; a woman standing beside him—Rosamund Carew, whom she had never seen at all; and a third figure—a man walking across the lawn, his back to the camera.
    It was at the third figure that Nan stared. Her hand tightened unconsciously on Jervis Weare’s hand.
    â€œWho’s that?” she said.
    He turned. Their hands dropped apart.
    Nan stood on tiptoe, pointing.
    â€œWho is that?”
    He threw her an astonished look. She had a bright colour in her cheeks; her lips were parted. Before he could look away she flashed round upon him.
    â€œWho is that man?”
    Jervis became, if possible, a shade more distant.
    â€œHis name is Leonard—Robert Leonard—a connection of—my grandfather’s. I don’t think you are very likely to have met him.”
    â€œIs he a friend of yours?”
    His voice stiffened.
    â€œA family connection.”
    Nan’s right hand took hold of her left.
    â€œYou are thinking it’s very strange that I should ask questions about Mr Leonard, but I’ve got a reason. Will you please tell me where he has been for the last ten years?”
    He took a little more serious notice of what she was saying. Ten years ago she would have been a child; her interest in Robert Leonard could not possibly be a personal one.
    â€œWhy do you want to know?”
    â€œBecause I think I saw him once ten years ago.”
    â€œOnce! Ten years ago! Good Lord! What sort of memory are you giving yourself?”
    â€œDon’t you remember anything that happened ten years ago? I do—little things—all sorts of things—like little sharp pictures in my mind. When I saw that, I remembered him. Won’t you tell me what I asked?”
    He laughed outright.
    â€œWhy, the photograph doesn’t even show his face!”
    Nan wasn’t remembering a face; she was remembering just that square thickset figure, and just that turn of the head.
    â€œTell me,” she said.
    â€œWhat do you want to know? Ten years ago—ten years ago.… well, exactly ten years ago he was over on a visit from South America staying with my grandfather. I remember that because I know he was staying in the house when I nearly drowned myself out on Croyston rocks.”
    â€œYes?” said Nan in a little half voice. “How—how did you do that?”
    â€œOh, slipped up on the rocks and banged a hole in the back of my head. The tide was coming in, and they only found me just in time.”
    Nan had turned very pale.
    â€œMr Leonard found you?”
    â€œOh no—he wasn’t anywhere about. It was an American fellow who was taking photographs.”
    Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley rushed into Nan’s mind—important, efficient, and immensely talkative. And then he was gone again, and she saw the beach, the jagged rocks which hid the pool, and the thickset figure of a man coming from behind the rocks and walking away towards the headland. He was walking away from her, and he was walking away from Jervis, who lay half in and half out of the pool with a hole in the back of his head and the tide coming up. She said