French shrugged. “Identification otherwise than by the features is usually possible. It is a matter of observation. Some small physical defect, a crooked finger, the scar of an old cut, or mole on the neck—there are scores of indications to the observant man.” Mr. Pyke sat in silence for a few minutes. “Then I’m afraid I’m not very observant,” he said at last. “I can’t remember any such peculiarity in poor Stanley’s case.” “Nothing in the shape of the finger nails,” French prompted. “No birthmark, no local roughness or discoloration of the skin?” “By Jove!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed with a sudden gesture. “There is something. My cousin had a birthmark, a small red mark on his left arm, here. I remembered it directly you mentioned the word.” “Then you have been fairly intimate with your cousin? Have you often seen this mark?” “Seen it? Scores of times. We were boys together and I have noticed it again and again. Why, now I come to think of it, I saw it on these last holidays I spent with Stanley. We went to the south of France and shared a cabin in the steamer to Marseilles.” “Could you describe it?” “No, but I could sketch it.” He seized a piece of paper and drew a rough triangle. French laid his photograph beside the sketch. There could be no doubt that they represented the same object. Pyke seized the photograph. “That’s it. I could swear to it anywhere. You’ve found Stanley’s body right enough. Good Heavens! Inspector, it’s incredible! I could have sworn he hadn’t an enemy in the world. Have you any clue to the murderer?” Natural caution and official training made French hedge. “Not as yet,” he answered, assuring himself that his ideas about Berlyn were hypothetical. “I was hoping that you could give me a lead.” “I?” Jefferson Pyke shook his head. “Far from it. Even now I can scarcely credit the affair.” “Well, I should like you to run over his associates and see if you can’t think of any who might have hated him. Now to start with the senior partner: What about Colonel Domlio?” Mr. Pyke had never met him and knew nothing about him, though he had heard his cousin mention his name. French went on through the list he had made at Ashburton till in the natural sequence he came to Berlyn. “Now Mr. Berlyn. Could he have had a down on your cousin?” “But he was lost, too,” Pyke rejoined, then stopped and looked keenly at French. “By Jove! Inspector, I get your idea! You think Berlyn may have murdered him and cleared out?” He shook his head. “No, no. You are wrong. It is impossible. Berlyn wasn’t that sort. I knew him slightly and I confess I didn’t care for him, but he was not a murderer.” “Why did you not like him, Mr. Pyke?” Pyke shrugged. “Hard to say. Not my style, perhaps. A good man, you know, and efficient and all that, but—too efficient, shall I say? He expected too much from others; didn’t make allowances for human errors and frailties. Poor Mrs. Berlyn had rather a time with him.” “How so?”