"You see, they are offering £100 reward for the apprehension of this man, Andrew Rolt. That looks as if someone had suspicions. Here is his description: Tall, thin, stoops; has sandy hair, thin on top, parted in the middle; restless grey eyes; wide mouth, bad teeth, thin lips; white face; speaks in a low, soft voice; has a nervous trick of rubbing his hands together." The stranger ceased reading from the placard to look at Mr. Howitt "Are you aware, sir, that this description is very much like you?"
Mr. Howitt's eyes were riveted on the placard. They had followed the stranger as he read. His manner was feverishly strained.
"It's not Nothing of the sort It's your imagination. It's not in the least like me."
"Pardon me, but the more I look at you the more clearly I perceive how strong is the resemblance. It is you to the life. As a detective"—he paused, Mr. Howitt held his breath—"I mean supposing I were a detective, which I am not"—he paused again, Mr. Howitt gave a gasp of relief—"I should feel almost justified in arresting you and claiming the reward. You are so made in the likeness of Andrew Rolt"
"I'm not. I deny it! It's a lie!"
Mr. Howitt stood up. His voice rose to a shriek. A fit of trembling came over him. It constrained him to sit down again. The stranger seemed amused.
"My dear sir! I entreat you to be calm. I was not suggesting for one moment that you had any actual connection with the miscreant Rolt. The resemblance must be accidental. Did you not tell me your name was Howitt?"
