Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. They had changed identities absolutely. "I see him!—row for your life!" "That's the way to miss him, master," replied Ben coolly. " "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it.
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