He walked aimlessly along one extensive row of drawers, and suddenly came to a halt. "Here, for instance, is a record of a remarkable man," he said. He pulled open a drawer unerringly, ran his fingers along the top of a batch of envelopes and selected one. He nodded the Count to a polished table near the window, and pulled up two chairs. "Sit down," he said, "and I will introduce you to one of the minor masters of the criminal world." Count Poltavo was an interested man as T. B. opened the envelope and took out two plain folders, and laid them on the table. He opened the first of these; the photograph of a military-looking man in Russian uniform lay upon the top. Poltavo saw it, gasped, and looked up, his face livid. "That was the Military Governor of Poland," said T. B., easily; "he was assassinated by one who posed as his son many years ago." The Count had risen quickly, and stood shaking from head to foot, his trembling hand at his mouth. "I have never seen him," he muttered. "I think your record office is very close--you have no ventilation." "Wait a little," said T. B., and he turned to the second dossier. Presently he extracted another photograph, the photograph of a young man, a singularly good-looking youth, and laid it on the table by the side of the other picture. "Do you know this gentleman?" asked T. B. There was no reply. "It is the photograph of the murderer," the detective went on, "and unfortunately this was not his only crime. You will observe there are two distinct folders, each filled with particulars of our young friend's progress along the path which leads to the gallows." He sorted out another photograph. It was a beautiful girl in a Russian peasant costume; evidently the portrait of some one taken at a fancy dress ball, because both the refined face and the figure of the girl were inconsistent with the costume. "That is the Princess Lydia Bontasky," said T. B., "one of the victims of our young friend's treachery. Here is another." The face of the fourth photograph was plain, and marked with sorrow. "She was shot at Kieff by our young and high-spirited friend, and died of her wounds. Here are particulars of a bank robbery organized five years ago by a number of people who called themselves anarchists, but who were in reality very commonplace, conventional thieves unpossessed of any respect for human life. But I see this does not interest you." He closed the dossier and put it back into its envelope, before he looked up at the Count's face. The man was pale now, with a waxen pallor of death. "They are very interesting," he muttered. He stumbled rather than walked the length of the room, and he had not recovered when they reached the corridor.