“Did he talk like an educated man?” Mason asked.
“Well, there was something quiet about the way he talked, and he had a peculiar way of looking at you while he was talking... looking right straight through you without seeming to be trying to do it. Some people just stare at you, and some seem to try to look holes through you, but this fellow just had a quiet way of...”
“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “Would you know the man if you saw his picture?”
“Yes, I think I would. I know I’d recognize him if I saw him, and I think I’d recognize the picture if it was a good picture.”
Mason said, “Just a minute.”
He walked out to where Della Street was sitting in the car. He pulled out his penknife and said, “Going to have to cut your paper to pieces, Della.”
“Making dolls?” she asked.
“Making mysteries,” he told her, and ran his knife around the border of the newspaper photograph of Fremont C. Sabin. He took it back into the pet store, unfolded the photograph, and said, “Is this, by any chance, the man who bought the parrot?”
Gibbs became excited. “That’s the fellow,” he said, “that’s the man all right. That’s a good picture of him; those high cheekbones and that strong, firm mouth.”
Mason folded the newspaper photograph and pushed it down in his pocket. He and Drake exchanged significant glances.