"I suppose so," Talbot answered thoughtfully; "what sort of a man was he?"
"A decent-looking fellow enough; but a Londoner, I fancy, and—stay!" exclaimed John suddenly, "there's a man coming towards us from the turnstile; and unless I'm considerably mistaken, it's the very fellow."
Mr. Mellish was right.
The wood was free to any foot-passenger who pleased to avail himself of the pleasant shelter of spreading beeches, and the smooth carpet of mossy turf, rather than tramp wearily upon the dusty highway.
The stranger advancing from the turnstile was a decent-looking person, dressed in dark tight-fitting clothes, and making no unnecessary or ostentatious display of linen, for his coat was buttoned tightly to the chin. He looked at Talbot and John as he passed them,—not insolently, or even inquisitively, but with one brightly rapid and searching glance, which seemed to take in the most minute details in the appearance of both gentlemen. Then, walking on a few paces, he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the pond, and the bank above it.
"This is the place, I think, gentlemen?" he said, in a frank and rather free-and-easy manner.
Talbot returned his look with interest.
"If you mean the place where the murder was committed, it is," he said.
"Ah, I understood so," answered the stranger, by no means abashed.
He looked at the bank, regarding it, now from one point, now from another, like some skilful upholsterer taking the measure of a piece of furniture. Then walking slowly round the pond, he seemed to plumb the depth of the stagnant water with his small gray eyes.