as a man with a red
face and a dark moustache.

A man who answered such description was the elusive friend of
Mademoiselle Jacquelot, of Montauban, the motor bandit Mateo Sanz--the
man who had so cleverly evaded the police, and who had no doubt been
an intimate friend of Despujol! In order to confirm my suspicions, I
at once telegraphed to Senor Rivero in Madrid, urging him to send me a
copy of the police photograph of Sanz for identification purposes.
That same day I received a reply which informed me that the photograph
was in the post, hence I remained in Amsterdam awaiting its arrival.

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 Senor Rivero, head of the Spanish detective
department, and we saw him at Montauban. But though Senor Rivero
followed him, he escaped."

"Then he is wanted--eh?"

"Yes--for murder."

The Dutch police official gave vent to a low grunt.

"Very well," he said. "I will have inquiry made. I thank you very much
for the information."

It seemed to me that he was annoyed because I had dared to dispute his
theory that the late Baron had died from natural causes. He was a
stolid man, who, having once made up his mind, would not hear any
evidence to the contrary.

With failing heart I saw that to move him was hopeless, so next day I
returned to London, piqued and angry, yet satisfied that I had
discovered the true cause of the Baron's lamentable death.

Weeks passed. To pursue the inquiry further seemed quite hopeless.
The summer went by, but Mrs. Tennison and h