He was a young man—­about my own age, I judged—­(I shall be twenty-eight 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 portfolio, then rapidly ran my fingers over the stranger’s other pockets.

I left the portfolio to the last.

The jacket pockets contained nothing else except a white silk handkerchief unmarked.  In the right-hand top pocket of the waistcoat was a neat silver cigarette case, perfectly plain, containing half a dozen cigarettes.  I took one out and looked at it.  It was a Melania, a cigarette I happen to know for they stock them at one of my clubs, the Dionysus, and it chances to be the only place in London where you can get the brand.

It looked as if my unknown friend had come from London.

There was also a plain silver watch of Swiss make.

In the trousers pocket was some change, a little English silver and coppers, some Dutch silver and paper money.  In the right-hand trouser pocket was a bunch of keys.

That was all.

I put the different articles on the floor beside me.  Then I got up, put the candle on the table, drew the chair up to it and opened the portfolio.

In a little pocket of the inner flap were visiting cards.  Some were simply engraved with the name in small letters: 

Dr. Semlin

Others were more detailed: 

Dr. Semlin, Brooklyn, N.Y. 
The Halewright Mfg.  Coy., Ltd.

There were also half a dozen private cards: 

Dr. Semlin, 333 E. 73rd St., New York. 
Rivington Park House.

In the packet of cards was a solitary one, larger than the rest, an expensive affair on thick, highly glazed millboard, bearing in gothic characters the name: