“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the stranger, in an easy and confidential manner. “I came up this way, looking for a man. And I thought I’d drop in here and see if you could give me any information.” He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross. “Fellow by the name of Ives,” he said. “Ever hear of him, eh?”
“No!” said Ross.
“Ives,” said the other, slowly. “Martin Ives. Fellow about your age. About your build. Dark complexioned—like you.”
“D’you think I’m your Martin Ives?” demanded Ross, angrily.
“I wish you were,” said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness.
“Well, I’m not,” he said, “and I never heard of him. I’m new here—just came two days ago.”
“Two days, eh?” said the stranger. “That was Wednesday, eh?”
“I shouldn’t have told him that,” thought Ross, dismayed. “But, good Lord, I can’t remember to lie all the time! And, anyhow, what difference can it make—when I came here?”
But he could see, from the stranger’s face, that it had made a difference.
“You came here on Wednesday,” he continued. “I wonder, now, did you happen to see any one—”