“Madden, you say his name is?” I pursued.
“Madden,” he repeated.
“Has he travelled much?” I inquired.
“I haven't an idea. He is one of the least autobiographical of men. He sits, and smokes, and giggles, and sometimes he makes small jests; but his contributions to the art of pleasing are generally confined to looking like a gentleman and being one. No,” added Stennis, “he'll never suit you, Dodd; you like more head on your liquor. You'll find him as dull as ditch water.”
“Has he big blonde side-whiskers like tusks?” I asked, mindful of the photograph of Goddedaal.
“Certainly not: why should he?” was the reply.
“Does he write many letters?” I continued.
“God knows,” said Stennis. “What is wrong with you? I never saw you taken this way before.”
“The fact is, I think I know the man,” said I. “I think I'm looking for him. I rather think he is my long-lost brother.”
“Not twins, anyway,” returned Stennis.