They all spoke in one breath. And as I despairingly laid down my pencil, the last man repeated firmly,
"Brown. But—they might be light brown—or hazel, y'know."
"But, after all, Boyne," Whipple appealed to me, "you've got a fairly accurate description of the man, one that fits him all right."
"Does it? Then he's description proof. No moles, scars or visible marks?" I suggested desperately.
"None." There was a negative shaking of heads.
"No mannerisms? No little tricks, such as a twist of the mouth, a mincing step, or a head carried on one side?"
More shakes of negation from the men who knew Clayte.
"Well, at least you can tell me who are his friends—his intimates?"
Nobody answered.
"He must have friends?" I urged.