"What do you know about it?" demanded Mr. Douglas.
"Nothing; I am only guessing."
"Well, you are guessing wrong. He wore a wide-brimmed slouch hat."
"He did?"
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"I can see him as plainly as though my eyes were fixed on his dying face at this moment."
"And he had clear black eyes—regular French eyes."
"Well, it's strange how you talk, Mr. Newspaper Man; you're not good at guessing. His eyes were not black; I will never forget the color of his eyes; they were fixed on me with a look of agony while he tried to speak. They were a clear blue—yes, sir, as blue as the midday sky."
Our readers can imagine the exultation of the detective as he elicited the description we have recorded, and indeed he had reason to exult, for he had secured a clue in the most remarkable manner. His keenness had been marvelous; his success was equally wonderful; but he had after all only secured a starter. But there was a revelation to come that caused him to stop and consider whether or not any credit really was due him, and whether it was not a strange Providence which had after forty years guided him to the startling starting point for the following up of a great clue.