"Berry Jawkins; I am barman at the Eight Bells public on the Richmond Road."
"Ho; Ho!" muttered Fanks, "I thought as much."
"On the twenty-first a nigger came riding a bicycle about eight o'clock; he came into the bar; and had a drink. He wore a green coat with brass buttons. After he had his drink, he asked if he might wash his face. I sent him out to the pump in the back yard; he washed and came in. Then gents," said the little man, with emphasis, "I got a surprise, I can tell you."
"What kind of surprise?" demanded Garth, with an astonished look.
"Why, sir; that nigger weren't no nigger at all; he were a white man; as white as you make 'em."
"A white man," said Fanks, producing the portrait from his pocket.
"A white man with a smile and a moustache; a very good-looking sort of feller," added the barman, "he explained how it was he--"
"Wait a moment," said Fanks, "is that the man you saw?"
Berry Jawkins started back in surprise, the moment he set eyes on the photograph which Fanks had thrust under his nose. "My gum, here's a start," said Mr. Berry Jawkins. "That's the very identical person who washed himself at the Eight Bells. How did you come to know of him, sir?"
"I suspected it for some time," said Fanks, "do you recognise the face, Mr. Vaud?"