“I've got it!” cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. “D'yuh mind that night you came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?—and we went up an' searched my room fur a trace?”
“And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes.”
“Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now down-stairs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?”
“Turl—T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?”
“Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that evening. So what the dickens was he doin' there?”
“It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow—here are some comic sketches he brought me this afternoon.” Larcher got the drawings from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. “I don't know how good these are; I haven't examined them yet.”
The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the name, “F. Turl.”
“Oh, has he signed this lot?” asked Larcher. “I told him he ought to. Let's see what his signature looks like.” He glanced at the corner of the sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: “By George, I've seen that name!—and written just like that!”