next birthday) and about my own height, which is five feet ten. There
was something about his appearance and build that struck a chord very
faintly in my memory.

Had I seen the fellow before?

I remembered now that I had noticed something oddly familiar about him
when I first saw him for that brief moment in the corridor.

I looked down at him again as he lay on his back on the faded carpet. I
brought the candle down closer and scanned his features.

He certainly looked less foreign than he did before. He might not be a
German after all: more likely a Hungarian or a Pole, perhaps even a
Dutchman. His German had been too flawless for a Frenchman--for a
Hungarian, either, for that matter.

I leant back on my knees to ease my cramped position. As I did so I
caught a glimpse of the stranger's three-quarters face.

Why! He reminded me of Francis a little!

There certainly was a suggestion of my brother in the man's appearance.
Was it the thick black hair, the small dark moustache? Was it the
well-chiselled mouth? It was rather a hint of Francis than a resemblance
to him.

The stranger was fully dressed. The jacket of his blue serge suit had
fallen open and I saw a portfolio in the inner breast pocket. Here, I
thought, might be a clue to the dead man's identity. I fished out the