“Then, I suppose, he must be about the middle height?”
“Well, you might say it, sir; but not remarkable so.”
I smothered an oath.
“Is he clean-shaved?” I tried him again.
“Clean-shaved?” he repeated, with the same air of anxious candour.
“Good heaven, man, don’t repeat my words like a parrot!” I cried. “Tell me what the man was like: it is of the first importance that I should be able to recognise him.”
“I’m trying to, Mr. Anne. But clean-shaved? I don’t seem to rightly get hold of that p’int. Sometimes it might appear to me like as if he was; and sometimes like as if he wasn’t. No, it wouldn’t surprise me now if you was to tell me he ’ad a bit o’ whisker.”
“Was the man red-faced?” I roared, dwelling on each syllable.
“I don’t think you need go for to get cross about it, Mr. Anne!” said he. “I’m tellin’ you every blessed thing I see! Red-faced? Well, no, not as you would remark upon.”