er. It did not take very long and, when it was
finished, the inspector turned, and after giving Loristan a long and
strange look, nodded twice.

"It is a remarkable thing," he said. "In that rough sketch she is not
to be mistaken."

Loristan bent his head.

Then he mentioned the name of another street in another place--and
Marco sketched again. This time it was the peasant with the simple
face. The Prince bowed again. Then Loristan gave another name, and
after that another and another; and Marco did his work until it was at
an end, and Lazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had
silently taken charge of as each was laid aside.

"You would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?" said the Prince.
"If you passed one in Bond Street or in the Marylebone Road, you would
recognize it at once?"

"As I know yours, sir," Marco answered.

Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had
often asked them before. They were questions as to the height and
build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and
eyes, and the order of their complexions. Marco answered them all. He
knew all but the names of these people, and it was plainly not
necessary that he should know them, as his father had never uttered
them.

After this questioning was at an end the Prince pointed to The Rat who
had leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eager
like a ferret's.

"And he?" the Prince said. "What can he do?"

"Let me try," said The Rat. "Marco knows."

Marco looked at his father.

"May I help him to show you?" he asked.

"Yes," Loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the Prince, he said
again in his low voice: "HE IS ONE OF US."

Then Marco began a new form of the game. He held up one of the
pictured faces before The Rat, and The Rat named at once the city and
place connected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the
height, the build, all the personal details as Marco himself had
detailed them. To these he added descriptions of the cities, and
points concerning the police system, the palaces, the people. His face
twisted itself, his eyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in
his readiness of reply and his exactness of memory.

"I can't draw," he said at the end. "But I can remember. I didn't
want any one to be bothered with thinking I was trying to learn it. So
only Marco knew."

This he said to Loristan with appeal