Where is the photograph?”For a few moments everyone searched for it, with varying degrees of interest and excitement. Then David reached across and picked it up from a side table where Anya had left it earlier in the evening.“Here it is,” he said, and handed it over to Martin.It seemed there was a concerned indrawing of breath while Martin stared consideringly at the old, but still unfaded picture. Then he said slowly.“Yes—of course I remember now. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him before, except that it isn’t really much like him.”“But who is he?” demanded Lady Ranmere, with hardly veiled impatience.“His name was Edcombe—Francis Edcombe.” Martin still spoke slowly, as though recalling carefully something long forgotten. “He was an extraordinary nice and clever chap. He married a Russian girl, I remember, but he was killed in some sort of accident only a few weeks later.”He paused, but the silence in the room was complete. Only Anya shivered slightly, with nervous excitement, as the identity of her long dead father slowly took shape before her.“You reminded me of him when I first saw you—”
