table and examined it again, magnifying it to many times its original size.
He scrutinised it with great care. It was the portrait of the strange girl who came to St. Mary's.
Basil had told Spence of this woman, and now he passed the photograph on to him.
"Harold, that is the girl who comes to church and looks so unhappy. She is an actress, of course. The name is underneath — Miss Gertrude Hunt. Who is Miss Gertrude Hunt?"
Spence took the thing. "How very queer!" he said, "to find your unknown like this. Gertrude Hunt? Why, she is a well-known musical comedy girl, sings and dances at the Regent, you know. There are all the usual stories about the lady, but possibly they are all lies. I'm sure I don't know. I've chucked that sort of society long ago. Are you sure it's the same person?"
"Oh, quite sure! Of course, this shows the girl in a different dress and so on, but it's she without a doubt. I am glad she comes to church. It is not what one expects from what one hears of that class of woman, and it's not what one generally finds in the parish."
He sighed, thinking of the many chilling experiences of the last few months in the vice-haunted streets and squares of Bloomsbury.
"Well," said Spence, "experiments with that type are generally failures, and sometimes dangerous to the experimenter. You remember Anatole France's Thais? But this damsel is no Thais certainly, and you aren't a bit like Paphuntius. I hope you will be able to do some good. Personally, anything of the sort would be quite impossible to me. Good-night, old man. I'm going to turn in. I've a hard day's work to-morrow. Sleep well."
He went out of the room with a yawn.
