"Intelligent?"
"Yes, very, I should think."
"What type?"
"What type of occupation, do you mean?"
"No, I can deduce that for myself. What type of — temperament, I suppose you'd call it?"
"Oh, I See." The surgeon thought for a moment. He looked doubtfully at his interlocutor. "Well, no one can say that for a certainty — you understand that?" And when Grant had acknowledged the qualification: "but I should call him one of the 'lost cause' type." He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at the inspector and, assured of his understanding, added, "He had practical enough qualities in his face, but his hands were a dreamer's. You'll see for yourself."
Together they viewed the body. It was that of a young man of twenty-nine or thirty, fair-haired, hazel-eyed, slim, and of medium height. The hands, as the doctor had pointed out, were long and slim and not used to manual work. "Probably stood a lot," said the surgeon with a glance at the man's feet. "And walked with his left toe turned in."
"Do you think his assailant had any knowledge of anatomy?" asked Grant. It was almost incredible that so small a hole had let a man's life out.
"It wasn't done with the precision of a surgeon, if that's what you mean. As for a knowledge of anatomy, practically every one who is old enough to have lived through the war has a working knowledge of anatomy. It may have been just a lucky shot — and I rather think it was."
Grant thanked him and came to business with the Gow Street officials. On the table were laid out the scanty contents of the man's pockets. Grant was conscious of a faint dismay when he saw their fewness. A white cotton handkerchief, a small pile of loose change (two half-crowns, two sixpences, a shilling, four pennies, and a halfpenny), and — unexpected — a service revolver. The handkerchief was well worn but had no laundry mark or initial. The revolver was fully loaded.