Four days later it was handed to me, a photograph taken in several positions of the rather round-faced, florid man whom I had seen talking to Mademoiselle at the station at Montauban—the man whom Rivero had followed, but who, on the French police going to arrest him, was found to have fled.
I carried the photograph to Folcker’s lodgings and there showed it to him.
“That is the man who met my master, sir!” he cried unhesitatingly. “Only he wore round horn spectacles. His face and moustache are the same. He was not Dutch.”
“No. This man is a Spaniard named Sanz, who is well known to the police,” I replied.
“Then they should arrest him, for he is no doubt responsible for my poor master’s death.”
We went together to the Bureau of Police where the valet formally identified the photograph, and made certain declarations concerning the malefactor in question. These he signed.
“I happen to have seen this individual,” I explained to the police commissary. “I was with Señor Rivero, head of the Spanish detective department, and we saw him at Montauban. But though Señor Rivero followed him, he escaped.”
“Then he is wanted—eh?”
“Yes—for murder.”