It was not the face of Francis that his features suggested.

It was mine!

* * * * *

The next moment I found myself in No. 33. I could see no sign of the key
of the room; Semlin must have dropped it in his fall, so it behoved me
to make haste for fear of any untoward interruption. I had not yet heard
eleven strike on the clock.

The stranger's hat and overcoat lay on a chair. The hat was from
Scott's: there was nothing except a pair of leather gloves in the
overcoat pockets.

A bag, in size something between a small kit-bag and a large handbag,
stood open on the table. It contained a few toilet necessaries, a pair
of pyjamas, a clean shirt, a pair of slippers, ... nothing of importance
and not a scrap of paper of any kind.

I went through everything again, looked in the sponge bag, opened the
safety razor case, shook out the shirt, and finally took everything out
of the bag and stacked the things on the table.

At the bottom of the bag I made a strange discovery. The interior of
the bag was fitted with that thin yellow canvas-like material with which
nearly all cheap bags, like this one was, are lined. At the bottom of
the bag an oblong piece of the lining had apparently been torn clean
out. The leather of the bag showed through the slit. Yet the lining
round the edges of the gap showed no fraying, no trace of rough usage.