"There is a portrait of Ellen Howth." He handed a photograph to Mr. Tennant. "This is not Ellen Howth." "Then that is." He passed the prisoner a second photograph. "Nor is this. Neither of these photographs in the least resembles Ellen Howth. Not in any one particular. I have never seen the woman whose portrait this purports to be. Of that I am sure." "It beats me, my lad, to think how a man circumstanced as you are, can lie so glibly. You know as well as I do, and indeed better, that you are holding in your hands portraits of the poor young woman whose life you took." "That is not so. Neither of these portraits at all resembles the woman, Ellen Howth, with whom I travelled from Brighton. If they are photographs of the woman who was found dead, then it is certain that I had no hand whatever in killing her." "You have seen those portraits before." "Never!" "Do you mean to tell me that no one, neither your counsel nor your solicitor, nor any one else showed you them?" "I do. You appear surprised." "It is not a question of surprise. I don't believe you." "You can soon ascertain for yourself that what I tell you is a fact. You must remember that from the first I told my solicitor the actual facts. I took it for granted that the woman who had been found dead was Ellen Howth. Under those circumstances there was no reason why I should be shown or why I should wish to be shown her photograph. I have not seen that portrait before. The woman whose portrait it is is a complete stranger to me. Were she here she would tell you that I am equally a stranger to her. There is some mystery which, at present, I do not profess to understand. But of one thing I am certain, that the woman, Ellen Howth, whom I supposed was dead, is as much alive as you are or as I am." "Give me those portraits. It strikes me that you are one of those men who will go even to face their God with a lie upon their lips. I don't believe a word that you have said." "Then you wrong me cruelly. I hope, for your sake, as well as for my own, that you will learn that you do, before it is too late." The detective made no reply. He went out of the cell without a word. The governor followed him. The door was clanged. The condemned man was left alone to get himself, if he could, into a mood in which he should be able to look the gallows squarely and without flinching in the face. The governor spoke to the detective as they walked side by side. "What do you think of it?" "Queer-street." "I certainly noticed myself the woman of whom he speaks. I wonder you didn't. Her action was most marked. She certainly did cast at him what seemed to me to be a glance of exultant recognition, while the sight of her seemed to fill him with stupefied amazement. I wondered when I saw it what the scene might mean." "What was she like?" "He describes her very fairly." "If she's still in Lewes I'll leave no stone unturned to find her." "And if she isn't?"