A moment later he hastily took from his pocket the cardboard box, from
which he extracted the two mounted photographs which had puzzled me so
much. They now seemed to puzzle Thorndyke equally, to judge by his
expression, for he held them close to his eyes, scrutinizing them with
an anxious frown, and backing by degrees into the doorway at the side of
the tobacconist's. At this moment I became aware of a man who, as he
approached, seemed to eye my friend with some curiosity and more
disfavour; a very short, burly young man, apparently a foreign Jew,
whose face, naturally sinister and unprepossessing, was further
disfigured by the marks of smallpox.
"Excuse me," he said brusquely, pushing past Thorndyke; "I live here."
"I am sorry," responded Thorndyke. He moved aside, and then suddenly
asked: "By the way, I suppose you do not by any chance understand
Yiddish?"
"Why do you ask?" the newcomer demanded gruffly.
"Because I have just had these two photographs of lettering given to
me. One is in Greek, I think, and one in Yiddish, but I have forgotten
which is which." He held out the two cards to the stranger, who took
them from him, and looked at them with scowling curiosity.
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