There were some small studies of family and friends, including a fine one of his cousin Hans, the piano-maker, sitting at the keyboard, the fine lines of his face caught by the soft light coming from an unseen window.

On one wall were three views of Niagara Falls, commissioned by Frank Master. They were wonderfully striking, the long exposure adding a complexity to the billowing sprays rising from the base, and a dazzling clear sky making the whole scene almost unearthly, like a painting.

“Hmm,” said Horace Slim. “You’ll do well with those.”

Theodore grinned. “Pays the rent, Mr. Slim. They are technically excellent, by the way.”

There were a few scenes of New York, including one of the reservoir on Fifth Avenue. Hetty Master had commissioned it.

And that pretty much seemed to wrap the exhibition up. Except for one small, rather dark picture in a corner. Horace Slim walked over and took a quick look at it. The photograph had a title: Moonlight Sonata.

It took a few seconds to decipher what was in there. The scene had required a very long exposure, because it was taken by the light of a full moon. You could make out a trench line, and a sentry standing near a field gun, whose long barrel shone softly in the moonlight. There were tents and a little stricken tree.

“Civil War?”

“Yes. But it didn’t seem to go in the other room, somehow. It’s more a personal photograph, I guess. I may take it down.”

The journalist with the sad eyes nodded, folded up his notebook and put it in his pocket.

“Well, I guess I’m done, then.”

“Thank you. You’ll give me a notice?”

“Yes. Don’t know how long—that’ll depend on the editor—but I have all I need.”

They began to walk out together.

“Just out of interest, not for the piece, what was the story of the little dark picture?”

Theodore paused.

“Well, it was the night before an engagement. In Virginia. Our Union boys were in their trenches, and the Confederates in theirs, not more than a couple of stone’s throw away. It was quite silent. The moonlight, as you saw, was falling on the scene. There must’ve been all ages, I suppose, between those trenches. Men well into middle years. And plenty who were little more than boys. There were women in the camp, too, of course. Wives, and others.

“I supposed they would soon fall asleep. But then, over in the Confederate trenches, some fellow started singing ‘Dixie.’ And soon they were all joining in, right along the line. So they sang ‘Dixie’ at us for a while, then stopped.

“Well, sure enough, our boys weren’t going to let it go at that. So a group of ’em started up ‘John Brown’s Body.’ And in no time the whole of our trenches were giving them that. Fine voices too, I may say.