e large wall-mirror. He turned his head from side
to side and tried to see the back of it. He smiled into the mirror,
raised his eyebrows, frowned and, in fact, tried a variety of
expressions and effects, including a slight and graceful bow. Then he
approached the glass to examine a spot on his cheek; leaned against it
with outspread hands to inspect his teeth, and finally put out his
tongue to examine that too. I almost expected that he would ask me to
brush it. However, he did not. Adjusting his necktie delicately, he
handed me my fee with a patronizing smile and remarked, 'You are a good
barber: you have taste and you take trouble. I give you a penny for
yourself and I shall come to you again.'

"As the door closed behind him I turned to the other customer. He rose,
walked over to the operating chair and sat down sullenly, keeping an eye
on me all the time; and something in his face expressive of suspicion,
uneasiness and even fear seemed to hint at something unusual in my own
appearance.

"It was likely enough. Hard as I had struggled to smother the tumult of
emotions that seethed within me, some disturbance must have reached the
surface, some light in the eye, some tension of the mouth to tell of the
fierce excitement, the raging anxiety, that possessed me. I was afraid
to look at him for fear of frightening him away.

"Was he the man? Was this the murderer, Piragoff, the slayer of my wife?
The question rang in my ears as, with a far from steady hand, I slowly
lathered his face. Instinct told me that he was. But, even in my
excitement, reason rejected a mere unanalyzable belief. For what is an
intuition? Brutally stated, it is simply a conclusion reached without
premises. I had always disbelieved in instinct and intuition and I
disbelieved still. But what had made me connect this man with Piragoff?
He was clearly a Russian. He looked like a villain. He had the manner of
a Nihilist or violent criminal of some kind. But all this was nothing.
It formed no rational basis for the conviction that possessed me.

"There was his hair; a coarse, wiry mop of a queer grayish-brown. It
might well, from its color, be ringed hair; and if it was I should have
little doubt of the man's identity. But was it? I was getting on in
years and could not see near objects clearly without my spectacles; and
I had laid down my spectacles somewhere in the parlor.

"As I lathered his face, I leaned over him to look at his hair more
closely