“Come over here before you sit down and I'll tell you,” she exclaimed, peremptorily. “Now take a look at that box. Now watch me lift the lid, and see what you find,” and she enacted the little pantomime of the morning.
The detective stroked his chin with his forefinger. He was more interested in Martha's talk about Dalton than he was in the contents of the box. “And you want to get him, don't you?” he asked slyly.
“Me get him! I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. What I want is for him to keep out of here—I told him that last night.”
“Well, then, tell me what he looks like, so I can get him.”
“Like anybody else until you catch the hang-dog droop in his eyes, as if he was afraid people would ask him some question he couldn't answer.”
“One of the slick kind?”
“Yes, for he's been a gentleman—before he got down to be a dog.”
“How old?”
“About thirty—maybe thirty two or three. You can't tell to look at him, he's that battered.”
“Smooth-shaven—well-dressed?”