face in the glass. There was horror on it. His eyes, cast down, were fixed on the back of the photograph.
"What's that?" he said, in a thin, sharp voice.
Beauling began to tremble all over; he did not know why.
"That's a photograph of my father and mother," he said.
Dunbar breathed heavily.
"Why do you look at it like that?" said Beauling. "Why do you?"
Dunbar's voice was unrecognizable.
"Mine was like that," he said.
The silence became terrible in the room.
Beauling, his eyes still on the mirror, saw Dunbar's hand stealing toward the picture. He caught the hand, and thrust it back.
"No," he said; "no!"
"Let me see it," said Dunbar.
"No," said Beauling. He faced about, interposing himself between Dunbar and the picture.
"Why did you say it was like yours?" he said. "Why did you?"
