“The fact of finding a man dead of terror and then finding that picture on his retina, is, I think, part of the reason why I feel—pretty sick.” “It’s bad enough,” said Freyberger, bending over the table and staring at the thing. “The other part of the reason is the thing itself.” Freyberger continued gazing without a word. “You seem in love with it.” “I am studying it, stripping it of all its accessories. This is the portrait of a human face; it belonged to a person who was in the bedroom of Sir Anthony Gyde just before the death of Leloir; the sight of it killed Leloir, we may presume, from shock.” “Yes.” “Well, presumptions are sometimes wrong.” “Explain yourself.” “I am studying this face intently; it has all the features of an ordinary human, though very evil, face; in repose one may fancy it repulsive, but not especially alarming, certainly not alarming enough to kill a man from shock.” “Yes?” “It is the expression of the thing that constitutes its chief feature.” “Yes.” “What is that expression? It is a compound of alarm and hatred.” “Yes,” said the doctor, coming to the table and glancing at the thing, and then returning to his post at the mantelpiece. “Yes, I should say that is the expression—or at all events, a very good imitation of it.” “Well,” went on the other, “from the expression on this face I construct the following hypothesis. Leloir suddenly entered his master’s bedroom and found a stranger there, a stranger to whom the face whose picture we see here belonged. He surprised him, perhaps, committing some act, to which we have no clue; anyhow, he surprised him. Hence the expression.” “I can understand that causing the expression of alarm. How about the ferocious hatred we see here—” “Mark you,” said Freyberger, “I did not say terror. I said alarm. If you have ever alarmed a man and been attacked by him, you will understand how closely allied alarm and hatred of the most ferocious description may be. I have experienced the fact several times, I assure you, in the course of my professional work.” “I can imagine so.” “Well, granting my supposition,” continued the other, “we may ask ourselves, what was this man doing when Leloir surprised him? It was not the face of the creature that killed Leloir with shock, we may presume, but the act he was committing. What was that act?” “Trying to murder Gyde, perhaps, since it is known that Gyde was in the bedroom after the secretary heard that scream, which was evidently the scream of Leloir dying.” “I have quite cast Gyde out of my mind,” said Freyberger. “I have quite come to the conclusion that Gyde has no more to do with this whole case than the child unborn. I am firmly convinced—mind, I say this to you privately—that the only criminal in this case is the man whom Gyde is supposed to have murdered, that is to say, the artist Klein, _alias_ Kolbecker. “I believe this face to be a portrait of Klein.