“Good day,” said one of them, knocking off his play, and coming up. “Off-saddle won’t you? Dashed hot, isn’t it?”
“Thanks. I’m Glanton, from Isipanga,” I said in answer to his look of enquiry.
“Oh. Glad to know you, Glanton. I’m Kendrew, from nowhere in particular, at least not just now, price of transport being too sleg for anything.”
“Oh, you ride transport then? How many waggons?”
“Three in good times—one in bad; none in worse—as in the present case. This is Sergeant Simcox, of the N.M.P.,” introducing the other man, whom I noticed wore uniform trousers and boots. “He’s been helping me to look for my poor old uncle, you know.”
“Oh, Hensley was your uncle, was he?”
“Rather. But I’m next-of-kin—so if he’s not found I take. See?” with a comprehensive wink and jerk of the head which took in the surroundings.
I couldn’t help laughing at his coolness. He was a tall, rather good-looking young fellow, all wire and whipcord, with a chronically whimsical expression. The police sergeant was a hard bitten looking customer, typical of his line in life.
“Now what do you think of the affair?” I said. “Did you know Hensley well?”
“Hanged if I did. He didn’t like me. Did you?”