Professor Bocaros--he obtained his title from a Greek College, as he stated--was certainly odd in his appearance. He was tall and lean and lank, apparently made of nothing but bones. Rheumatism in this damp spot would have had a fine field to rack Bocaros, but he never seemed to be ill. Always dressed in black broadcloth, rather worn, he looked like an undertaker, and moved with quite a funereal step. His face was of the fine Greek type, but so emaciated that it looked like a death's-head. With his hollow cheeks, his thin red lips, his high bald forehead, and the absence of beard and moustache, Bocaros was most unattractive. The most remarkable feature of his face was his eyes. These, under shaggy black brows, seemed to blaze like lamps. However weak and ill the man looked, his blazing eyes showed that he was full of vitality. Also, his lean hands could grip firmly, and his long legs took him over the ground at a surprising rate. Yet he ate little, and appeared to be badly nourished. Tracey, to whom Bocaros was always a source of wonder and constant speculation, confided to Gerty that he believed the professor was possessed of some restorative which served instead of food. On the whole, there was an air of mystery about the man which provoked the curiosity of the lively, inquisitive American. It would have inspired curiosity with many people also, had not Bocaros lived so retired a life. The Baldwin children called his house "Ogre Castle," and invented weird tales of the professor eating little children.
"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire of sorts," said Tracey. "He don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of his wouldn't keep a flea in condition."
"I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded, although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear."
"And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey.
Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to borrow the Daily Budget from Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught, Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after the Ajax Villa tragedy, when the professor tore along the path--he always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor--he met Tracey half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand.
"Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask. You don't mind, do you?"
Bocaros fixed his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question, my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of foreign accent.
The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask your opinion about this murder."
"I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?"
"The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were."