"I should think last when he called in and told me to make him another bottle of his tonic," answered Macpherson, after some thought. "As I said just now, perhaps about six weeks ago. But the books——"
"Never mind the books yet. What's this Dr. Charles Ambrose like?"
"A tall, handsome man, distinguished-looking—I should say about forty years of age. A dark man—hair, eyes, beard. He wears his moustache and beard in—well, a sort of foreign fashion; in fact, he's more like a Spaniard than an Englishman."
"But—is he an Englishman?"
"He was always taken by me for an Englishman; he speaks like one—that is, like an Englishman of the upper classes. He once told me he was an Oxford man—we'd been talking about universities."
"Well-dressed man?"
"Aye, he was that! A smart, fine man."
"Did you ever see him in a big, dark overcoat, with a large white silk muffler about his neck and the lower part of his face?"
"Aye, I've seen him like that! On chilly evenings. Indeed, that's another thing he told me—he was subject to bronchial attacks."
"Muffled himself well up, eh?" suggested Matherfield.