“What shaped nose? Large, small, turned-up—”
“Small and regular!” There was a touch of indignation in his voice.
“How did she dress? Fashionably? And did she favor bright or quiet colors?”
“Beaut—” And then as I opened my mouth to head him off he came down to earth with:
“Very quietly—usually dark blues and browns.”
“What jewelry did she wear?”
“I’ve never seen her wear any.”
“Any scars, or moles?” The horrified look on his white face urged me on to give him a full shot. “Or warts, or deformities that you know?”
He was speechless, but he managed to shake his head.
“Have you a photograph of her?”
“Yes, I’ll show you.”
He bounded to his feet, wound his way through the room’s excessive furnishings and out through a curtained doorway. Immediately he was back with a large photograph in a carved ivory frame. It was one of these artistic photographs—a thing of shadows and hazy outlines—not much good for identification purposes. She was beautiful—right enough—but that meant nothing; that’s the purpose of an artistic photograph.
“This the only one you have?”
“Yes.”