“Very well, sir.”
“Now, Louis,” remarked Mr Carrados briskly, when the door had closed again, “you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is he like?”
“In what way?”
“I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man—I haven’t seen my servant for twelve years—what idea can you give me of him? I asked you to notice.”
“I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about average——”
“Five feet nine,” murmured Carrados. “Slightly above the mean.”
“Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth.”
“False,” interposed Carrados. “The teeth—not the statement.”
“Possibly,” admitted Mr Carlyle. “I am not a dental expert and I had no opportunity of examining Mr Parkinson’s mouth in detail. But what is the drift of all this?”
“His clothes?”