" he asked. His voice sounded thin and
far-off through the closed door of the dark room.

I did. PUNYER had been a cashier, and had absconded with rather more
than the usual amount.

"Well, I had some dealings with PUNYER. As a cashier he was certainly
dishonest, but as a man he was absolutely reliable, and nothing
would induce him to break his word. I know that to be a fact from my
personal experience of the man; indeed, it was through me that he was
identified--or, rather, through one of my photographs."

"Really?"

"Yes. On the day that he absconded, a four-wheeler drove up to this
house. The driver got off, and sent a message up to the studio that
a gentleman in a cab outside wished to speak to me. So, of course, I
went out. Inside the cab I found a man wearing a thick green veil. He
explained to me that his face had been injured in a railway accident,
and that he could not allow it to be seen by any one. He wanted me to
photograph the back of his head. He knew that the request was unusual.
'But,' he said, pathetically, 'my few friends have got to know the
back of my head, just as they know the faces of others who are--who
are less unfortunate than myself. The doctors tell me that I have not
long to live, and my friends are eager to have some slight memento of
me.' I was much moved, and I agreed to photograph him at once."

"The man was PUNYER?"

"Of course. The photograph of the back of his head turned out
admirably--clear and full of character."

"But why did he get photographed at all?"

"You shall hear; it all came out afterwards. I have already told
you that PUNYER, in his private capacity, was a man of his word. It
appears that he was engaged to a Miss MIRANDA BUDE. Indeed, it was to
her that I was to send the photographs when they were finished. He
had promised her that he would have his photograph taken for her on
his birthday; and the day on which he absconded happened to be his
birthday. He could not break his promise. What was he to do? At first
he disguised himself as far as he could; he shaved off his luxurious
beard and moustache; he had his long fair hair closely cropped
and stained black. But there was on his face one certain mark of
identification which he could not alter nor remove. It was a slight
scar, extending diagonally across his forehead; when he was a child
he once fell into the fender, and the mark had remained ever since.
At last the bright idea occurred to him that he might hav