“There—there wasn't much to describe,” the girl faltered. “He had a brown beard and some of his front teeth were missing, and he nearly always wore those big, horn-rimmed glasses.”
“Height?” questioned the inspector sharply.
“Well, he wasn't very tall nor very short,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
“Thin or stout?”
“Not much of either!” The girl twisted her hands about, evidently wishing herself far away.
The inspector deserted the topic of Mr. Thompson's appearance. He held up the book.
“When was this taken out?”
The manager glanced at a list of volumes opposite the subscribers' names.
“Last Thursday. I may say that Mr. Thompson always wanted books of this class—detective fiction, and he literally devoured them. He always expected a new one to be ready for him, and he was inclined to be unpleasant if he had for the time being exhausted the supply. He generally called here every day. This is an unusually long interval if he has not called since Thursday.”
“Um!” The inspector glanced at Mr. Steadman. Then he turned back to the manager. “I am obliged by your courtesy, sir. Would you add to it, should Mr. Thompson call or send again, by ringing me up at Scotland Yard? The book we will leave with you.”