“What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked away. “It was difficult to keep it up while we were talking to him; but it was well worth while.”
“I think he’s a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course; but see how he’s helping us. We could never have done anything without him.”
“He’s quite off his chump, that’s clear. But he seems to be quite all there when it’s a question of getting something done. We’re meeting some queer people on this job.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan.
“Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living. I should say he was just what they call a character, picking up somehow barely enough to exist on, and drifting about with nothing in particular to do. He probably drinks, or has been in trouble somehow.”
“I don’t care what trouble he’s been in. He fascinates me. And he’s obviously an educated man.”
“Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the orthodox sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs, keeping up his self-respect by playing the hidalgo.”
“Don’t you suppose he’s really a Spaniard?”
“No more than you or I. He’s probably been in Spain. That’s all. But, whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just the information we want, and that’s what we really care about. Only I feel inclined to introduce him to my night watchman at Piccadilly. They would make a pretty pair. They are both hero-worshippers.”