“Well,” said the woman, “it is not mine to give; it was found in Mr Kolbecker’s room by Mrs Stairs after he left for Cumberland, and she brought it to me. It’s no value to me, and if it will help you to find out who killed him you had better take it. Mind you, I look to you to see me righted, and I don’t want this house brought into the papers; it’s hard enough getting a living without getting a name for being mixed up in murders.” “I will see that you don’t suffer in any way,” replied the other, “and I will give you a receipt for this photograph, just as I gave you one for those pieces of marble this afternoon.” He wrote out a receipt on a sheet of paper torn from his notebook, and with the photograph in his possession left the house. When he reached the Yard, it was a little after twelve. The chief was absent, snatching a few hours’ sleep possibly, after a day of fourteen hours’ solid work, in which the consideration of the Gyde case had been only an item. Inspector Dennison was in, and Freyberger found him and put the evidence he had collected in his hands. Freyberger had that tremendous advantage which helps a man along in the world as much, or more, than industry or genius. He was a general favourite. A favourite, not because he was all things to all men, or gave the wall to any man, or truckled, or trimmed, or did anything small, so as to make himself pleasing. He was a favourite because he was straight and honest, always ready to help another man, ever ready to praise what seemed to him praiseworthy or criticize what seemed to him wrong. In fact, there was nothing small about him, except his person, and even that was not particularly small, just a shade under the middle size. Inspector Dennison, a very big man, both physically and by reputation, liked the little German, and when Freyberger showed him his results he did not criticize them destructively. He went carefully through the matter of the photographs without showing the slightest surprise at the marvellous retinal picture. He said he failed to see much resemblance between it and the French photograph, but that possibly, allowing for the vast difference in expression and the vagueness of the retinal picture, they might be photographs of the same person. He did not recognize so fully as Freyberger the possibility of connexion between the hellish face and the subdued and self-contained face, but he recognized it. “There is something on the back of this photograph I want to examine more attentively,” said Freyberger. “Something has been written with a pencil; the writing has been rubbed out, but the dent remains. Have you a lens, not a too powerful one?” Dennison produced one from a drawer, and his companion took it and proceeded to examine the marks.