Then Quarles became impressive.
"I suppose you have no idea where Mr. Portman is? To your knowledge nothing has happened which would account for his absence?"
"Nothing. If you want my opinion—I should say he's dead, had an accident, most likely, and no papers on him to say who he was."
"One more question," said Quarles, "in strict confidence, mind. Is Mrs. Eccles honest?"
"As daylight," was the prompt reply. "Would she have put the police on this business if she hadn't been?"
"I never thought of that," said Quarles humbly. "Your brain is young and mine is old."
"Makes a difference, no doubt," said the youth.
"And my memory is like a sieve," the professor went on. "I've already forgotten whether this file seller was a clean-shaven chap or wore a beard."
"Don't worry about that," said the youth, "because I didn't describe him. He was an old chap with a gray beard, and had lost most of his teeth, I should think, by the way he talked."
"Poor fellow. Poor fellow! I expect I should have been fool enough to give him a bob."