“One gift I have got,” went on Lloyd abstractedly. “That’s a memory for faces. Never forget a face. Beastly bore sometimes it is, too. I should know that man if I saw him again. As regards dates, it was in the spring of 1920 that I saw him. Went over to Paris to consult a man at the Sorbonne and ran into this chap and Mrs. Draycott in a little restaurant in Montmartre. Sort of place I go to because it suits me, but this fellow wasn’t the sort to go there at all. Wrong place for Mrs. Draycott, too. They were there because they didn’t want to be seen and, of course, they were seen. That’s how things happen. I’d met Draycott once and I knew this man wasn’t he. Mrs. Draycott being what she was, I put the worst interpretation on it. May have been mistaken, of course. Don’t quite know to this day why I followed them. Gregg was a pal of mine and I knew he was jumpy for fear she would make a grab at the boy and I’d just finished a big job and was at a loose end for the moment with a blank evening in front of me. Anyway, it was the third night I’d seen them and I happened to leave just behind them. She never even looked my way and, if she had, she probably wouldn’t have recognized me. They were walking and I just went too. It was a dark night and I tagged along behind till they got to their hotel and watched them go in. A little place bang in the middle of the Latin Quarter. By that time I’d had about enough of it and I didn’t wait to see if either of them came out, but a couple of days later I was in that part of the world and I dropped in and asked to see the visitors’ book. Drew a complete blank. The only English names registered for months were a Mrs. Grant, whom I took to be Mrs. Draycott, and a George Collins. Apparently there was no other English man or woman staying in the hotel. I wrote to Gregg, telling him what I’d done and there the matter ended. I found out afterwards that Draycott was in Egypt at the time. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do for you.” “You say you’d recognize the man if you saw him?” asked Fayre eagerly. “Could pick him out anywhere. I tell you, I’ve got an abnormally good memory for faces.” Fayre took half a dozen photographs from his pocket, the snapshot among them, and placed them on the table. “Do any of these suggest him to you?” he asked. Lloyd ran through them quickly, then stabbed one of them with a long, yellow-stained forefinger. “That’s the fellow,” he pronounced unhesitatingly. “It’s an unusual head and quite unmistakable.” Fayre picked it up with a hand that shook a little. He had had a vague notion that Lloyd might pitch on the snapshot, though, in his secret heart, he had prayed that he would recognize none of the photographs. This, of all others, was the last he had expected him to select. Chapter XXII