“You say you’d recognize the man if you saw him?” asked Fayre eagerly.
“Could pick him out anywhere. I tell you, I’ve got an abnormally good memory for faces.”
Fayre took half a dozen photographs from his pocket, the snapshot among them, and placed them on the table.
“Do any of these suggest him to you?” he asked.
Lloyd ran through them quickly, then stabbed one of them with a long, yellow-stained forefinger.
“That’s the fellow,” he pronounced unhesitatingly. “It’s an unusual head and quite unmistakable.”
Fayre picked it up with a hand that shook a little. He had had a vague notion that Lloyd might pitch on the snapshot, though, in his secret heart, he had prayed that he would recognize none of the photographs.
This, of all others, was the last he had expected him to select.
Chapter XXII
The next six weeks dragged heavily enough for John Leslie within the four walls of his cell at Carlisle, but, to Cynthia, they were one long agony. She spent one short week-end with her people at Galston and then gratefully accepted Miss Allen’s proposal that she should stay with her till the Assizes opened at Carlisle. Her mother’s open antagonism to John Leslie made her home unbearable to the girl and she was thankful to get away.