His reply was prompt.
‘I have—by the last train, the 7.25,—three singles.’
Three singles! Then my instinct had told me rightly.
‘Can you describe the person?’
Mr Stone’s eyes twinkled.
‘I don’t know that I can, except in a general way,—he was uncommonly old and uncommonly ugly, and he had a pair of the most extraordinary eyes I ever saw,—they gave me a sort of all-overish feeling when I saw them glaring at me through the pigeon hole. But I can tell you one thing about him, he had a great bundle on his head, which he steadied with one hand, and as it bulged out in all directions its presence didn’t make him popular with other people who wanted tickets too.’
Undoubtedly this was our man.
‘You are sure he asked for three tickets?’
‘Certain. He said three tickets to Southampton; laid down the exact fare,—nineteen and six—and held up three fingers—like that. Three nasty looking fingers they were, with nails as long as talons.’
‘You didn’t see who were his companions?’