This man, whoever he might be, was this girl's father; and nobody who had ever seen her and this miniature could ever doubt it.
She did not speak, nor did I, conscious that her eyes had never left my face and must have read my startled mind with perfect ease.
Presently I turned the portrait over.

There was a lock of hair there under the glass--bright, curly hair exactly like her own.

And at first I saw nothing else.

Then, as the glass-backed locket glanced in the lantern-light, I saw that on the glass something had been inscribed with a diamond.

This is what I read, written across the glass: "Jean Coeur a son coeur cheri." I looked up at her.
"Jean Coeur," I repeated.