Chairs were handed us, and we decanted the lemonade in comfort, talking about the weather and roads as we did so, and then I indifferently turned the conversation to the strange customers that the good woman would be in the habit of noticing on the road.
“I suppose you never notice any men coming to see Mr Turner up the way there—a coarse, red-haired man, for instance, in a big coachman’s coat, and having a slight cast in his eyes?”
“Mr Turner’s no ane to hae mony folk coming aboot his hoose—he’s owre greedy for that,” was the answer, “but I think I did see a man like that a day or twa syne—no gaun to Mr Turner’s, but coming the other road. He cam’ in here and bocht a half-ounce o’ tobacco and a pipe.”
“Going in towards Edinburgh, you mean?”
“No that either, for he asked the nearest road to the railway station.”
“He couldn’t be going to Edinburgh, then, for the station is two miles farther on, and he would have been nearly as quick to have walked. Have you any idea if he had been at Mr Turner’s?”
“No me; I never clapped een on the man afore.”
“Was he carrying anything?—a fiddle case, for instance?”
“No, no—naething but a deal box, tied roond wi’ a string. It wasna sae big as a fiddle case. He laid it doon on the counter while he filled his pipe. I think there was a ticket on it—put on wi’ iron tacks—and a name on the ticket.”
“What name?”