"Did anyone else come in while she was here, or shortly after, and buy some cigars of this same brand?" He awaited the dealer's slow process of memory and speech with eager interest.
"Y-e-s, I think so," said the man after a pause. "Yes, sure, a small man. He bought a box just the same. Two boxes in one evening—I don't do that every day."
"A man, you say—a small man. Was he young?"
"I don't remember very well. He was sick, I think. He had a handkerchief on his face and his hat was pulled far down."
"But surely you remember whether he was young or not," insisted
Garrison. "Try to think."
A child came in to buy a stick of candy. The dealer attended to her needs while Garrison waited. When he returned he shook his head.
"So many people come," he said, "I don't remember."
Garrison tried him with a score of questions, but to no avail. He could add nothing to what he had supplied, and the vagueness that shadowed the figure of the man had not been illumined in the least. Beyond the fact that a small man had followed Dorothy inside the store and purchased the duplicate of her cigars, there was nothing of significance revealed.
Disappointed, even accusing himself of dullness and lack of resources in the all-important discovery of his unknown man's identity. Garrison went out upon the street. He felt himself in a measure disloyal to Dorothy in his growing conviction that young Foster Durgin was guilty. He was sorry, but helpless. He must follow the trail wheresoever it led.
He ate a belated luncheon, after which he went to his office.