Come and look at him."
"No, no."
"Weakness! Death restores to every man his individuality. No two men
are like in death, though they may be like in life. Well. It comes to
this. We are going to bury Lord Harry Norland to-morrow, and we must
have a photograph of him as he lay on his deathbed."
"Well?"
"Well, my friend, go upstairs to your own room, and I will follow with
the camera."
In a quarter of an hour he was holding the glass against his sleeve.
"Admirable!" he said. "The cheek a little sunken--that was the effect
of the chalk and the adjustment of the shadows--the eyes closed, the
face white, the hands composed. It is admirable! Who says that we
cannot make the sun tell lies?"
As soon as he could get a print of the portrait, he gave it to Lord
Harry.
"There," he said, "we shall get a better print to-morrow. This is the
first copy."
He had mounted it on a frame of card, and had written under it the name
once borne by the dead man, with the date of his death. The picture
seemed indeed that of a dead man. Lord Harry shuddered.
"There," he said, "everything else has been of no use to us--the
presence of the sick man--the suspicions of the nurse--his death-even
his death--has been of no use to us.
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