Just now he felt that he was really coming to grips with that intelligence which, earlier in the day, he had dimly felt to be in antagonism with his own—the intelligence of the being whose terrible portrait was in his pocket.
The landlady’s husband opened the door in response to his knock.
He was a colourless and apathetic individual, who, when Freyberger introduced himself, showed him, without comment, into the fusty little sitting-room.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” said Freyberger, when the woman appeared, “but I have a portrait I wish to show you; it is, I believe, the portrait of Mr Kolbecker.” He undid the covering of the parcel and exposed the picture.
The woman looked at it.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
Freyberger felt a chill of disappointment.
“And yet,” she said.
“Yes?”