They looked him up and down, and his appearance inspired a certain amount of respect. None the less, they took counsel together, and with an ever-watchful eye Westerham saw them approach a portly person of an intensely British aspect.
Presently this individual came up to him and asked in most unmistakably English terms what Westerham's destination might be.
Westerham told the man shortly that his destination was Rouen.
“You must excuse me, sir,” said the man, whom Westerham guessed to be a Scotland Yard representative at the port of Dieppe, “but it is rather unusual for gentlemen to travel without luggage and without even so much as an overcoat. It is even more curious,” he added, “when they start on a journey without first taking a ticket.”
Westerham surveyed the man coolly with a faintly insolent air. He was coming to realise that whereas in ordinary times the consciousness of his own good faith enabled him to pass every barrier with the superiority born of an easy conscience, it required some brazenness to face obstructions of this sort when he had a desire for secrecy.
And the fat man was evidently shrewd. He might take life easily on the quay, and watch with thoughtful and even drowsy eyes the coming and going of innumerable English voyagers, but for all that his alertness only slept, and though he had an instinctive trust of Westerham's face and manner, still he could not deny that appearances were against the Englishman who travelled so unprovided for a journey and with such evident haste.
“Of course,” he said apologetically, “you will excuse my being persistent in making inquiries, for, after all, that is only my duty.”
“Quite so,” said Westerham, with a genial smile, “and how can I help you to do it?”
With some pomposity of manner the English detective produced a fat note-book.