"What you might call a golden-brown," replied Fish. "Cut—the beard was—to a point. Suited him."
Scarterfield drew out his pocket-book and produced a slightly-faded photograph—that of a certain good-looking, rather nattish young man, taken in company with a fox-terrier. He handed it to Fish.
"Aye!—as he was, years ago," said Fish. "I know that well enough—used to be one o' them in the phottygrapher's window down the street, outside here. But now, d'ye see, he's grown a beard. Otherwise—the same!"
"Well?" said Scarterfield, "What happened? This man came in. Was he alone?"
"No," replied Fish. "He'd two other men with him. One was a chap about his own age, just as smart as what he was, and dressed similar. T'other was an older man, in his shirt sleeves and without a hat—seemed to me he'd brought Baxter and his friend across from some shop or other to stand 'em a drink. Anyways, he did call for drinks—whisky and soda—and the three on 'em stood together talking. And as soon as I heard Baxter's voice, I was dead sure about him—he'd always a highish voice, talked as gentlemen talks, d'ye see, for, of course, he was brought up that way—high eddicated, you understand?"
"What were these three talking about?" asked Scarterfield.
"Far as I could make out about ship's fittings," answered Fish. "Something 'o that sort, anyway, but I didn't take much notice o' their talk; I was too much taken up watching Baxter, and growing more certain every minute, d'ye see, that it was him. And 'cepting that a few o' years does make a bit o' difference, and that he's grown a beard, I didn't see no great alteration in him. Yet I see one thing."
"Aye?" asked Scarterfield. "What, now?"
"A scar on his left cheek," replied Fish. "What begun underneath his beard, as covered most of it, and went up to his cheek-bone. Just an inch or so showing, d'ye understand? 'That's been knife's work!' thinks I to myself. 'You've had your cheek laid open with a knife, my lad, somewhere and somehow!' Struck me, then, he'd grown a beard to hide it."