“Well, I couldn’t swear to it,” said she, fixing her gaze again upon the thing. “At first, when you asked me, I’d have said not, but when I look longer it seems to me there’s a likeness, but if you wish to see what he was really like I can show you his photograph.” “His photograph! Why did you not tell me you had one?” “Because you never asked.” “Of course, of course, it was my fault; but please, if you will be so kind, let me see it.” She left the room, and returned with a small photograph in her hand. Freyberger almost snatched it from her, held it under the lamp and examined it. It was somewhat faded, and at the bottom of the card appeared the photographer’s name and address. “Gassard, 110 Boulevard St-Michel, Paris.” He examined the face. It was a face to give a physiognomist (to use Freyberger’s expression) pause. A face quite impossible to describe. One might say that the cheek bones were abnormally flat and the face very wide across them. That the nose was terribly pinched at the root; that the eyes were somewhat of the Mongolian type; all this would give no idea of the physiognomy upon which Freyberger’s eyes were fixed. It was a repulsive face, even in repose, and the most distinctive thing about it was the expression, an expression cold and evil; a thoughtful expression, that made one shudder in trying to conjure up the thoughts that had given it birth; the expression of Osimandias, of the cruel and cold and the diabolically clever. Between this faded photograph and the retinal picture there lay a world of difference, all the difference between a landscape seen in the calm of a still winter’s day and the same landscape tempest torn; yet they were pictures of the same person, and of this Freyberger felt sure. He could fancy that brow suddenly contracted, those thin lips suddenly puffed out, those nostrils expanded and the whole reptile hatred of the demon-reptile brain suddenly writing itself in furious lines, speaking, shrieking aloud. A feeling of triumph filled his breast; he had got one step further towards his antagonist. He turned the back of the photograph to the light and examined it. There was no writing upon it; and yet, on closer examination, there were some indistinct scratches on the upper part, as though pencil writing had once been there and erased. On closer examination still, he could just make out what seemed a capital _M_, and close to the _M_ some letters vaguely dented into the shiny card by the pressure of the pencil that had written whatever had been written and erased. “Thank you,” said Freyberger, when he had finished his inspection of the thing. “This photograph is very interesting and it may help us considerably in our work. May I keep it?”