The Marshal hastily faced about and stared hard at the mystery.
"Evening," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Then he lifted his hat a couple of inches from his head and replaced it at an entirely new angle, pulling the rim down so far over the left eye that the right eye alone was visible. This shift of the hat instantly transformed him into a figure of speech; he became as "cunning as a fox." People in Tinkletown had come to recognize this as an unfailing symptom of shrewdness on his part. He always wore his hat like that when he was deep in the process of "ferreting something out."
"Have I the honour of addressing Mr. Anderson Crow?" inquired the lady.
"You have," said he succinctly.
"Field Marshal Crow?"
"Ma'am?"
"Or is it Town Marshal? I am quite ignorant about titles."
"That's the name I go by, ma'am."
"Your name is very familiar to me. Are you in any way related to the great detective?"
This was unexpected tribute. The only thing he could think up to say was, "I'm him," and then, apologetically: "—unless some one's been usin' my name without authority."