Cynthia shook her head. You didn’t put things like that in a sketch when you were making notes from real life. It was, she told them, exactly as she had drawn it. She didn’t have any reason to make it up. Mr. Carruthers sat down and waved the others to chairs. “Might we,” he suggested, “see Goncourt’s passport again?” Yes, the purser would bring it. He seemed glad to get away. Stasia, who had quietly watched all this now said, “Don’t you think it would be a good plan, Dad, if we told Cynthia what this was all about?” And, at her father’s nod of assent, explained: “Dad is owner of this steamship line, you see, and the night we sailed from New York the head of the Police Department came down to see us off. He had come, he said, especially to get track of a man with a scar on his face. It was then late in the evening, you see, and most of the passengers were on board, but the purser examined all passports for a man with a scar like that. It was said to be very conspicuous, and the men at the gate watched all other passengers who came in after that, but they decided that no such man was on board.” “He’s wanted by the police?” asked Cynthia, feeling very much like a murder-mystery tale. “Yes, for smuggling ... in ...” “Here is the passport.” The purser, returning, had a little blue book, not a dark red one, such as Cynthia’s, in his hand. He passed the book to the Captain who gave it a brief glance, grunted non-committally and shoved it towards Mr. Carruthers. Stasia’s father compared the photograph to the face in Cynthia’s sketch book, but as one was full face, the other in profile, little could be gained by the comparison. “Is this the man?” he asked Cynthia, indicating the passport photograph. Cynthia got up and came around the desk. Passport in hand she moved to the window for a better light. As she examined the picture she was aware of the silent tenseness behind her and suddenly had an idea of how important all this was, important to several people. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember more fully the face she had sketched, not from the side as she had drawn him, but as he had quickly turned to gaze at her, full face, under the dark frowning brows. Then she looked again at the picture in her hand. It was very like. Still ... “No, it’s not the same man.” There was a little stir in the room and Mr. Carruthers got up and came to stand beside her. “But it’s very like him.” Something teased at her brain. Like and not like ... like and not like ... “It might be a relation,” she hazarded dubiously. “This man,” she tapped the passport, “has had a broken nose at some time. We had a model with one at the Academy, so I recognized the peculiar shape.” It was not at all like the beaky feature she had sketched. Absently she gazed at the cover of the passport. “What cabin is this man in? The one with the passport.” “He’s in 376, Miss,” the purser answered.