Carriston began to question me, but Brand stopped him. “You promised I should make inquiries first,” he said. Then he turned to me.
“Look here, Richard,”—when he calls me Richard I know he is fearfully in earnest—“I believe you have brought us down on a fool’s errand; but let us go to some place where we can talk together for a few minutes.”
I lead them across the road to the Railway Inn. We entered a room, and, having for the sake of appearances ordered a little light refreshment, told the waiter to shut the door from the outside. Brand settled down with the air of a cross-examining counsel. I expected to see him pull out a New Testament and put me on my oath.
“Now, Richard,” he said, “before we go further I want to know your reasons for thinking this man, about whom you telegraphed, is Carriston’s man, as you call him.”
“Reasons! Why of course he is the man. Carriston gave me his photograph. The likeness is indisputable—leaving the finger-joint out of the question.”
Here Carriston looked at my cross-examiner triumphantly. The meaning of that look I have never to this hour understood. But I laughed because I knew old Brand had for once made a mistake, and was going to be called to account for it. Carriston was about to speak, but the doctor waved him aside.
“Now, Richard, think very carefully. You speak of the missing finger-joint. We doctors know how many people persuade themselves into all sorts of thing. Tell me, did you notice the likeness before you saw the mutilated finger, or did the fact of the finger’s being mutilated bring the likeness to your mind?”
“Bless the man!” I said; “one would think I had no eyes. I tell you there is no doubt about this man being the original of the photo.”
“Never mind; answer my question.”