Sinclair was white. He got up and helped himself to a whiskey.
Collins picked up the statement of Mrs. Simmons from the floor, and read it carefully through.
Then he folded it up and handed it back to Sinclair.
“Was there anything else found on his person of interest?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sinclair, and took from his pocket a leather case. “The other things were just the ordinary things a man carries: they are at the house. This I brought with me. It contains miniatures of Sir James’ wife and daughter. She is a beautiful girl, you saw her to-day?”
Collins looked at the miniature long. It showed Miss Watson as a very young girl, with quaint curls encircling her face, but from the eyes there looked out the same brave innocence, and there was the wistful curve of the lips which he had seen in the girl of to-day.
He turned to the other picture, and gave a start. An intent look came into his face, and he looked long and earnestly.
Sinclair looked up.
“They are very much alike, aren’t they?” he said. “Anyone would know them for mother and daughter. Do you know, when I saw that photo miniature I almost seemed to recognise it, there is something familiar.”
Collins composed his face before he answered.