Bristow purposely remained silent, awaiting some explanation. He looked down, studying the pattern of the scratches he made by rubbing his right shoe against the side of the built-up sole, two inches thick, of his left shoe. The shortness of his crippled leg made this heavy sole necessary; and the awkwardness of it worried him. He seemed always conscious of it.
Greenleaf, taking his cue from Bristow, said nothing.
"I came in without notifying anybody," Withers felt himself obliged to continue, "and I registered under an assumed name."
"Where?" the lame man asked swiftly.
"At the Brevord."
"What name—under what name?"
"Waring, Charles B. Waring."
"And you've been in Furmville since yesterday morning? Got here on the eight o'clock train yesterday morning?"
"Yes."
Bristow gave him the benefit of another long pause and studied him more closely. He saw that this bereaved husband was of the high-strung, Southern-gentleman type, hot-tempered, impulsive, one of those apt to believe that "shooting" is the remedy for one's personal ills or injuries. The lines of his mouth betrayed selfishness and peevishness.