“Not after he went into the station.”
“And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
The cabman scratched his head. “Well, he wasn’t altogether such an easy gentleman to describe. I’d put him at forty years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don’t know as I could say more than that.”
“Colour of his eyes?”
“No, I can’t say that.”
“Nothing more that you can remember?”
“No, sir; nothing.”
“Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There’s another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good-night!”
“Good-night, sir, and thank you!”
John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile.