All that day Munro seemed to feel little need of my society. He examined every room in the house, and every square inch about the premises. He took short walks round the adjacent neighbourhood, and made, to his own satisfaction, a map of River Hall and the country and town thereunto adjoining. Then he had a great fire lighted in the library, and spent the afternoon tapping the walls, trying the floors, and trying to obtain enlightenment from the passage which led from the library direct to the door opening into the lane.
After dinner, he asked me to lend him the shorthand report I had made of the evidence given at the inquest. He made no comment upon it when he finished reading, but sat, for a few minutes, with one hand shading his eyes, and the other busily engaged in making some sort of a sketch on the back of an old letter.
"What are you doing, Munro?" I asked, at last.
"You shall see presently," he answered, without looking up, or pausing in his occupation.
At the expiration of a few minutes, he handed me over the paper, saying:
"Do you know anyone that resembles?"
I took the sketch, looked at it, and cried out incoherently in my surprise.
"Well," he went on, "who is it?"
"The man who follows me! The man I saw in this lane!"
"And what is his name?"