He took out of a drawer a small portfolio, on the cover of which was written, “J. D’Arblay, dec’d.,” and, passing it to me, returned to his documents. I opened it and found it to contain a number of separate abstracts, each duly headed with its descriptive title, and an envelope marked, “Photographs.” Glancing over the abstracts, I saw that they dealt respectively with J. D’Arblay, The Inquest, The Van Zellen Case, Miss D’Arblay, Dr. Gray, and Mr. Morris; the last containing, somewhat to my surprise, all the details that I had given Thorndyke respecting that rather mysterious person, together with an account of my dealings with him and cross-references to the abstract bearing my name. It was all very complete and methodical, but none of the abstracts contained any information that was new to me. If this represented all the facts that were known to Thorndyke, then he was no better informed than I was. But he had evidently got a great deal more out of the information than I had.
Returning the abstracts with some disappointment to the portfolio, I turned to the photographs; and then I got a very thorough surprise. There were only three, and the first two were of no great interest, one representing the two casts of the guinea and the other the plaster mask of Morris. But the third fairly took away my breath. It was a very bad photograph, apparently an enlargement from a rather poor snapshot portrait; but, bad as it was, it gave a very vivid presentment of one of the most evil-looking faces that I have ever looked on; a lean, bearded face, with high cheekbones, with heavy, frowning brows that overhung deep-shadowed, hollow eye-sockets and an almost grotesquely large nose, thin, curved, and sharp, that jutted out like a great predatory beak.
I stared at the photograph in speechless amazement. At the first glance I had been struck by the perfect way in which this crude portrait realized Marion’s description of the man who had tried to murder her. But that was not all. There was another resemblance which I now perceived with even more astonishment; indeed, it was so incredible that the perception of it reduced me to something like stupefaction. I sat for fully a minute with the portrait in my hand, and my thoughts surging confusedly in a vain effort to grasp the meaning of this extraordinary likeness; then, happening to glance up at Thorndyke, I found him quietly regarding me with undisguised interest.
“Well,” he said, as he caught my eye.
“Who is he?” I demanded, holding up the photograph.
“That is what I want to know,” he replied. “The photograph came to me without any description. The identity of the subject is unknown. Who do you think he is?”
“To begin with,” I answered, “he exactly corresponds in appearance with Miss D’Arblay’s description of her would-be murderer. Don’t you think so?”
“I do,” he replied. “The correspondence seems complete in every detail, so far as I can judge. That was why I secured the photograph. But the actual resemblance will have to be settled by her. I suggest that you take the portrait and let her see it; but you had better not show it to her pointedly for identification. It would be better to put it in some place where she will see it without previous suggestion or preparation. But you said just now ‘to begin with.’ Was there anything else that struck you about this photograph?”
“Yes,” I answered, “there was; a most amazing thing. You remember my telling you about the patient I attended in Morris’ house?”
“The man who died of gastric cancer and was eventually cremated?”
“Yes. His name was Bendelow. Well, this photograph might have been a portrait of Bendelow, taken with a beard and moustache before the disease got hold of him. Excepting for the emaciation and the beard—Bendelow was clean-shaved—I should think it would be quite an excellent likeness of him.”
Thorndyke made no immediate reply or comment, but sat quite still, looking at me with a very singular expression. I could see that he was thinking rapidly and intensely, but I suspected that his thoughts were in a good deal less confusion than mine had been.
“It is,” he remarked at length, “as you say, a most amazing affair. The face is no ordinary face. It would be difficult to mistake it, and one would have to go far to find another with which it could be confused. Still, one must not forget the possibility of a chance resemblance. Nature doesn’t take out letters-patent even for a human face. But I will ask you, Gray, to write down and send to me all that you know about the late Mr. Bendelow, including all the details of your attendance on him, dead and alive.”
“I will,” said I, “though it is difficult to imagine what connection he could have had with the D’Arblay case.”
“It seems incredible that he could have
