"Is there a photograph of Madeline anywhere in the apartment?"
Again that sullen glance under the eyelids of Nickerson Swift—eyelids that did not rise. Beulah was quiet now but she did not look up; unexpectedly there came that quavering high-pitched voice of the old man:
"Show it to him. Let him see it and give it to him if he wants it, then tell him to get out of here. There's a programme soon I want to listen to on the radio—Father Coughlin!"
The sound of his voice seemed to have a magic effect upon Nickerson Swift. He rose nervously and went into the next room, and returned presently, a framed portrait in his hand. My heart skipped a beat when I looked at that lovely face. I was astounded to find how skilfully Mr. Fitch, our crime sculptor, had done his work. The cunning magic of his
