He walked away through the busy London streets, seemingly more crowded than usual that Monday evening, and sent a telegraphic message to his wife, saying he could not be home until the morrow. Then he went into the Charing Cross Hotel and engaged a bed. Before eleven he was back again at Mr. Burtenshaw's. Grimley came in about a quarter past: a powerful, tallish man with a rather jolly face, not dressed in
his official clothes as a policeman, but in an ordinary suit of pepper-and-salt.
"You remember Philip Salter, Grimley?" began the superior man at once, without any circumlocution or introduction.
"I ought to remember him, Mr. Burtenshaw."
"Just describe his person to this gentleman as accurately as you can."
"He's not dropped upon at last, is he?" returned the man, his whole face lighting up.
"No. Don't jump to conclusions, Grimley, but do as you are bid." Upon which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir Karl.
"He was about as tall as I am, sir, and not unlike me in shape: that is, strongly made, and very active. His real hair was dark brown, and almost, black--but goodness only knows what it's changed into now."
"And his face?" questioned Karl. As yet the description tallied.
"Well, his face was a fresh-coloured face, pleasant in look, and he was a free, pleasant man to talk to you. His eyes--I can't be sure, but I think they were dark brown: his eyebrows were thick and rather more arched than common. At that time his face was clean-shaved, whiskers and all: daresay it's covered with hair now."
"Was he gentlemanly in his look and manners?"