Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they had only half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter.

While he was handling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell out pell-mell upon the floor.
Geoffrey stooped to pick them up.

A vehement exclamation startled Buntingford at his desk.
"What's the matter, Geoffrey ?" "Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to it anywhere!" He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head and shoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio, whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not been opened for many years.
Buntingford came to his side.

He looked at the drawing--then at French.
His face seemed suddenly to turn grey and old.
"My God!" he said under his breath, and again, still lower--"_My God_! Of course.

I knew it!" He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face in his hands.
Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas and conjectures rushing through his brain.
Another knock at the door.