The first time that he met the other members of the Powell family he quite took them by storm. His big, blue eyes had a frank, even impudent stare, but his smile was so winning and his laugh so spontaneous that it was impossible to be otherwise than friendly toward him.
“Awful glad to meet you, Mrs. Powell,” he said, shaking hands cordially, “and I want to congratulate you on your daughter. Miss Powell’s a wonder! How? Oh, in every way, but especially in having a sense of humour. So few girls do, nowadays!”
Coley spoke as a man of wide experience, though as a matter of fact, he was only about Elsie’s age himself. “And you have, too,” he went on, seeing the twinkle in Mrs. Powell’s eyes. “I suppose it runs in the family.”
“You’re likely to find out,” said Elsie, as Gerty came into the room and Coleman was presented to her.
Another of the young man’s comprehensive glances seemed to gather Gerty into his acquaintance, and after pleasant greetings he said, “Now, we’re all acquainted, and ready to begin work.”
He trotted around the room, selected the chair he preferred, and pulling out the smallest from a nest of little tables, placed it in front of him, and produced a notebook and pencil.
“I don’t want to know the facts or details of the case, for I know all those,” he said, “I want to find some sleeping dogs to stir up. By which, I mean,” his wavy mop of hair shook over his forehead as he explained, “I want to get sidelights, I want to find out things that you people know of, that others don’t,—I want your opinions, your suspicions, your ideas,—no matter how absurd they may seem.”
Coe’s eyes were of that intense, yet light, China blue, that is said by physiognomists to denote the vagabond character. And vagabond partly describes the boy’s nature. Not that he was one, but his temperament was roving, erratic, receptive and of wide interests. He saw everything that came within the vision of those alert blue eyes, and most things he saw he understood at once; if not, he kept at them until he did.
“Suspects, for instance,” he went on. “Whom do you suspect?” and he turned suddenly to Mrs. Powell.
“Gracious! I don’t know,—” the good lady replied, flustered at his attack.