In the mean time it was necessary to invest this stranger with his own identity.
There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they contained nothing of importance.

It seemed true, what the dying man had said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him specially to his fellow-men.

Roland opened his own pocket-book, and looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request.

His passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart.
He looked at them for the last time.

But Felicita's portrait he could not bring himself to give up.