About a fortnight before, being in town, I had spent the evening with the doctor. He was not alone, and I was introduced to a tall pale young man named Carriston. He was a pleasant, polite young fellow, although not much in my line. At first I judged him to be a would-be poet of the fashionable miserable school; but finding that he and Brand talked so much about art I eventually decided that he was one of the doctor's many artist friends. Art is a hobby he hacks about on grandly. (Mem. Brand's own attempt at pictures are simply atrocious!) Just before I left, Carriston, the doctor's back being turned, asked me to step into another room. There he showed me the portrait of a man. It seemed very cleverly drawn, and I presumed he wanted me to criticise it. "I am a precious bad judge," I said. "I am not asking you to pass an opinion," said Carriston. "I want to beg a favor of you. I am almost ashamed to beg it on so short an acquaintance." He seemed modest, and not in want of money, so I encouraged him to proceed. "I heard you say you were going into the country," he resumed. "I want to ask you if by any chance you should meet the original of that drawing to telegraph at once to Dr. Brand." "Whereabouts does he live?" "I have no idea. If chance throws him in your way please do as I ask." "Certainly I will," I said, seeing the young man made the request in solemn earnest. He thanked me, and then gave me a small photograph of the picture. This photograph he begged me to keep in my pocket-book, so that I might refer to it in case I met the man he wanted. I put it there, went my way, and, am sorry to say, forget all about it. Had it not been for the strange cigar in my case bringing back Carriston's unusual request to my mind, the probabilities are that I should not have thought again of the matter. Now, by a remarkable coincidence, I was spending the night with the very man, who, so far as my memory served me, must have sat for the portrait shown me at Brand's house. "I wonder what I did with the photo," I said. I turned out my letter-case. There it was, right enough! Shading it with one hand, I carefully compared it with the sleeper. Not a doubt about it! So far as a photograph taken from a picture can go, it was the man himself. The same ragged beard, the same coarse features, the same surly look. Young Carriston was evidently a wonderful hand at knocking off a likeness. Moreover, in case I had felt any doubt in the matter, a printed note at the bottom of the photograph said that one joint was missing from a right-hand finger. Sure enough, my friend lacked that small portion of his misbegotten frame.