"Come to think of it she did—one of them there flowery things"—his forefinger made little whirling designs on his coffee-colored skin—"what makes a kind of pattern-like all over people's face."
Because he was frantically seeking a clue, Mr. Grainger blurted out the foolish question:
"Was she—pretty?"
To answer as a connoisseur and as man to man the African took his time.
"Wa-al, not to say p'ooty, she wasn't—but she'd pa-ss. A little black-eyed thing, an' awful smart. One of 'em trained nusses like—very perlite, but a turr'ble boss you could see she'd be, for all she was so soft-spoken. Had cyare of the ole one, who was what you'd call plumb crazy."
"That will do." The trail seemed not worth following any further. "There's some mistake," he continued, furiously. "She must be in one of the other cars."
Like a collie from the leash he bounded off to make new investigations. In five minutes he was back again, passing up the length of the car and going on to examine those at the other end of the train. His face as he returned was livid; his manner, as far as he dared betray himself before a dozen or twenty spectators, that of a balked wild animal.
"Strangways," he swore, as he dropped to the arm of his seat, "you're going to answer for this."
Strangways replied, composedly:
"I'm ready to answer for anything I know. You can't expect me to be responsible for what I don't know anything about."