It seemed to me that Howard would devour him with his eyes as I scrutinized his silk underwear and returned it after a careful search.
I took everything—watch, trinkets, money and wallet, returning only his clothing, the belt being retained for more deliberate examination. I have spent most of my life studying men and women, but this man's case mystified me. Dressed again, he looked a good deal of a personage, undoubtedly forceful, and a power among men. But his shrunken legs and flabbiness of muscle I could not understand, nor could I comprehend Howard's consuming interest in him. The fact of his having tried unlawfully to "break and enter" Byng's warehouse, only to get his hand bored through by little Jim, was not enough. He was a prisoner now for his morning's work. I could not resist the impression we get of certain females, not women, who, barren themselves, hate children, and kiss dogs.
Well—perhaps I did wrap his personal belongings with more care and formality than I did the others.
"What name, please?" I asked, poising my pencil.
He looked at the manager and did not answer readily.
"Forman—Charles Forman," he finally blurted.
"That's a lie!" came from Howard Byng as clear as the sound of a church bell. "His name is Ramund—a damned Prussian!"