" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. I know the Dutch. “Before I met you I was deluded into receiving upon friendly terms a man named Hill, who passed himself off as Meysey Hill the railway man, but who was in reality an Englishman in poor circumstances. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. ‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. It’s well hidden, miss. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong. She stood without motion and without strength. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair.
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