Elk rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“I’m not well acquainted with the Statute Book,” he said, “but I’m under the impression there is no law preventing people from cultivating undergrowth. The—what’s the word?—psych——”
“Psychology,” suggested Mr. Broad.
“That’s it. The psychology of whiskers has never quite reached me. You’re American, aren’t you, Mr. Broad?”
“I have the distinction,” said the other with that half-smile that came so readily to his eyes.
“Ah!” said Elk absently, as he stared through the window. “Ever heard of a man called Saul Morris?”
He brought his eyes back to the other’s face. Mr. Joshua Broad was frowning in an effort of thought.
“I seem to remember the name. He was a criminal of sorts, wasn’t he—an American criminal, if I remember rightly? Yes, I’ve heard of him. I seem to remember that he was killed a few years ago.”
Elk scratched his chin irritably.
“I’d like to meet somebody who was at his funeral,” he said, “somebody I could believe on oath.”