“But about this swell,” Trafford interposed. “Would you know him again if you saw him?”
“I guess I would; leastwise ef I could see the top of his head. He took his hat off, an’ thar was the funniest little bald spot, jest the shape of a heart. ’Twas funny, an’ he warn’t more’n thirty years old. Say, when he gets to be fifty, he won’t hev no more hair’n I’ve got on the back o’ my hand.”
The next afternoon, a card was brought to Charles Matthewson, Esq., in his inner office in Augusta, and on the card he read, printed in small square letters:
“ISAAC TRAFFORD.”
“What in thunder does Trafford want of me?” he asked himself. “He can’t possibly know!”
He sat and looked at the card, while the boy waited and finally coughed to remind him he was still there. Matthewson looked up with a puzzled air. Evidently he did not care to see the man whose name was on the card, and as evidently he did not dare refuse him. Finally he said:
“Show him in in five minutes.”
When Trafford entered, in the very act of bowing, he cast a quick glance at the top of Matthewson’s head. There was the odd bald spot, shaped, as Jim Shepard had said, “Jest like a heart.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Trafford?” Matthewson asked, with the air of a busy man.
“I want about ten minutes’ talk with you,” the detective answered, drawing a chair close to the desk.