haps
the Secret Party knew he was doing it. His heart almost beat aloud
under his shirt as he lay on the lumpy mattress thinking it over. He
must indeed look well at the stranger before he even moved toward him.
He must be sure he was the right man. The game he had amused himself
with so long--the game of trying to remember pictures and people and
places clearly and in detail--had been a wonderful training. If he
could draw, he knew he could have made a sketch of the keen-eyed,
clever, aquiline face with the well-cut and delicately close mouth,
which looked as if it had been shut upon secrets always--always. If he
could draw, he found himself saying again. He COULD draw, though
perhaps only roughly. He had often amused himself by making sketches
of things he wanted to ask questions about. He had even drawn people's
faces in his untrained way, and his father had said that he had a crude
gift for catching a likeness. Perhaps he could make a sketch of this
face which would show his father that he knew and would recognize it.

He jumped out of bed and went to a table near the window. There was
paper and a pencil lying on it. A street lamp exactly opposite threw
into the room quite light enough for him to see by. He half knelt by
the table and began to draw. He worked for about twenty minutes
steadily, and he tore up two or three unsatisfactory sketches. The
poor drawing would not matter if he could catch that subtle look which
was not slyness but something more dignified and important. It was not
difficult to get the marked, aristocratic outline of the features. A
common-looking man with less pronounced profile would have been less
easy to draw in one sense. He gave his mind wholly to the recalling of
every detail which had photographed itself on his memory through its
trained habit. Gradually he saw that the likeness was becoming
clearer. It was not long before it was clear enough to be a striking
one. Any one who knew the man would recognize it. He got up, drawing a
long and joyful breath.

He did not put on his shoes, but crossed his room as noiselessly as
possible, and as noiselessly opened the door. He made no ghost of a
sound when he went down the stairs. The woman who kept the
lodging-house had gone to bed, and so had the other lodgers and the
maid of all work. All the lights were out except the one he saw a
glimmer of under the door of his father's room. When he had been a mere
baby, he had