“Well, I don’t mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that’s better stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”
Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.
“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the barrister.
“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might ha’ been yerself for all I could tell.”
“Do you think it was I?”
Foxey scratched his head.
“No, p’r’aps it wasn’t, now I come to rec’llect. He ’ad a moustache, and you ’aven’t. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an’ this chap wasn’t neither—just an every-day sort of toff.”
“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”
“That I couldn’t, sir. I am a rare ’and at langwidge, but I couldn’t manage that.”
“Why?”