Yet in this compound face, produced only from
photographs of David Granton and Medhurst, I could distinctly trace
a certain underlying likeness to every one of the forms which the
impostor had assumed for us. In other words, though he could make
up so as to mask the likeness to his other characters, he could not
make up so as to mask the likeness to his own personality. He could
not wholly get rid of his native build and his genuine features.
Besides these striking suggestions of the Seer and the curate,
however, I felt vaguely conscious of having seen and observed
_the man himself_ whom the water-colour represented, at some time,
somewhere. It was not at Nice; it was not at Seldon; it was not at
Meran; it was not in America. I believed I had been in a room with
him somewhere in London.
Charles was looking over my shoulder. He gave a sudden little start.
"Why, I know that fellow!" he cried. "You recollect him, Sey; he's
Finglemore's brother--the chap that didn't go out to China!"
Then I remembered at once where it was that I had seen him--at the
broker's in the city, before we sailed for America.
"What Christian name?" I asked.
Charles reflected a moment. "The same as the one in the note we got
with the dust-coat," he answered, at last. "The man is Paul
Finglemore!"
"You will arrest him?" I asked.
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