The little old man peered up at him over his glasses. “It is the book for me,” he said. “That Carlyle, sir, he was a man.”
“I dare say you manage to read a great deal at your job.”
“I do that. You see, I had a accident ten years ago. ’Fore that, I was a navvy; but that finished me—for heavy work, I mean. At first, I was wretched at this job; the company gave it me, when doctor said I was fit for light work. And then it came to me I’d take up reading, like. I hadn’t hardly ever opened a book till then—not since school. I can tell you, it’s been a revelation to me. I don’t ask nothing better than to sit here with a good book now. But it isn’t often one of you gentlemen seems to notice what I’m reading.”
The old man spoke slowly, and rather as if he was thinking aloud. He seemed almost to have forgotten that Ellery was there.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have noticed, unless there had been something I wanted to ask you. A man’s life may depend on it, and I wanted your help.”
The old man peered up at him again, and a little gleam of excitement came into his eyes; but he only nodded to Ellery to go on.
Ellery handed him a photograph of Walter Brooklyn. “On Tuesday night, at about half-past ten, that man stopped for some minutes on the island in the middle of the Circus here. He is accused of having been somewhere else, and his life may depend on our finding some one who saw him here. What I want to ask is whether you happened to notice him.”
The old man thought for a minute before answering. “I can’t say I did; but I seem to know his face somehow. Half-past ten, you said?”
“Then or then abouts, it must have been.”
“No, I didn’t see him. At half-past ten I was in here reading, and I didn’t notice much. But I know I’ve seen that chap somewhere. Wait a minute while I think.”