Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. “Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. Let’s go. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten. "The chief of the detective agency informed me that it would be best not to let Mr. He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead.
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