“Nobody asked for you to-night.”
“That so?” said Scanlon, his glance going to Ashton-Kirk.
The detective dug carelessly at the hard-packed earth of the platform with the tip of the hickory stick.
“The person who asked for my friend the last time he stopped off here was a stranger to you, I understand.”
The ancient official took one of the thumbs from under a brace and raked it thoughtfully through the wisp of beard.
“Don’t remember ever seeing him before,” stated he.
“I suppose you couldn’t recall what he looked like?”
The ancient looked injured.
“I’m sixty-seven year old,” said he, “but I got good eyesight, and a better memory than most. That man I talked to that night was a stranger at the Furnace. If I’d ever set an eye on him before I’d remembered him. He was fat and white and soft looking. And he talked soft and walked soft. When he went away, I’d kind of a feeling that I’d been talking to a batter pudding.”
“Have you seen him since?” asked the crime student.