“I do not. I don’t even know Johnson’s first name. But I’ll write you a note of introduction on my card, and if you should come across him, give him my regards.”
Baumgarten accepted the card with thanks, and we parted.
Next day, being warm, I sat on a bench in the shade listening to the music. Now that Baumgarten had gone, I was meditating on his strange resemblance to Johnson, and remembering things. Someone sat down beside me, but I paid no attention to him. Finally he said: “This seems to be a very good band.”
I started at the sound of his voice, and looked at him too much astonished to reply.
He wore a moustache, but no whiskers, and a green Tyrolese felt hat with a feather in it. An alpenstock leaned against the bench beside him, its iron point in the gravel. He wore knickerbockers; in fact, his whole appearance was that of the conventional mountaineer-tourist. But the voice! And the expression of the eyes!
“What did you say?”
“I said the band is very good.”
“Oh, yes. Quite so. It’s expensive, and it ought to be good. I’m helping to pay for it. By the way, you arrived this morning, I take it?”
“I came last night.”
“Oh, indeed. And you depart in a few days for Innsbruck?”