It was a beautiful face:  the features were very clearly cut and defined, like—­Good heavens!  I had it now:  it reminded me of Gladys Hamilton’s.  The next moment I was holding the balcony railing as though I were giddy; it was like Gladys, but it was still more like the closed picture in Gladys’s room.  I pressed my hands on my eyelids as with a strong effort I recalled her brother Eric’s face, and the next moment the young painter had come to the window again, and I was looking at him between my fingers.

The resemblance could not be my fancy; those were Eric’s eyes looking at me.  It was the same face, only older and less boyish-looking.  The fair moustache was fully grown; the face was altogether more manly and full of character.  It must be he; I must go and speak to him; but as I rose, my limbs trembling with excitement, he moved away, and his whistle seemed to die in the distance.

It was nearly six o’clock, and there was no time to be lost.  I ran upstairs and put on my bonnet and mantle.  I thought that Clayton looked at me in some surprise,—­I was leaving the house without gloves; but I did not wait for any explanation:  the men would be leaving off work.  The door was open, and I quickly found my way to the drawing-room, but, to my chagrin, it was empty, and an elderly man with gray hair came out of a back room with a basket of carpenter’s tools and looked at me inquiringly.

‘There is a workman here that I want to find,’ I said breathlessly,—­’the one that was painting the window-frames just now,—­a tall, fair young man.’

‘Oh, you’ll be meaning Jack Poynter,’ he returned civilly; ’he and his mate have just gone.’

‘It cannot be the one I mean,’ I answered, somewhat perplexed at this.  ’He was very young, not more than three-or four-and-twenty, good-looking, with a fair moustache, and he was whistling while he worked.’

‘Ay, that’s Jack Poynter,’ returned the man, taking off his paper cap and rubbing up his bristly gray hair.  ’We call Jack “The Blackbird” among us; he is a famous whistler, is Jack.’

‘Oh, but that is not his name,’ I persisted, in a distressed voice.  ’Why do you call him Jack Poynter?’

‘That is what he calls himself,’ returned the man drily.  Evidently he thought my remarks a little odd.  ’Folks mostly calls themselves by their own names; among his mates he is known as “The Whistler,” or “The Blackbird,” or “Gentleman Jack."’

‘Well, never mind about his name,’ I replied impatiently.  ’I want to speak to him.  Where does he live?  Will you kindly give me his address?’

’You would be welcome to it if I knew it, but “Gentleman Jack” keeps himself dark.  None of us know where he lives.  I believe it used to be down Holloway; but he has moved lately.’

‘I wish you would tell me what you know about him,’ I pleaded.  ’It is not idle curiosity, believe me, but I think I shall be able to do him a service.’