“It bears a resemblance to the face of the corpse at Lonesome Cove.”
“Pretty good likeness, for a thing done from memory, I think.”
“Memory? Whose memory?”
“Well—mine, for instance.”
“Oh, no. That won’t do, you know. It isn’t your style of drawing at all.”
“Setting up for an art critic, are we?”
“Aside from which you certainly wouldn’t be using this sort of paper, when you’ve cardboard to your hand.”
“So you’re not to be caught, I see,” said Sedgwick, with a nervous laugh.
“Not in so plain a trap, at any rate. Where did that precious work of art come from?”
“Heaven knows! Ching Lung found it lying on the door-step, with a cobblestone holding it down. I’d like to lay my hands on the artist.”