“Those are the ones. The other was a fellow with a big bunch of whiskers and hair enough to stuff a sofa pillow, and a hand organ and a monkey.”
“No, Bob, not exactly.”
“Not exactly—what do you mean, Mr. Dawson?”
“I mean there wasn’t any man with a hand organ and a monkey.”
“Oh, well, he could have left that behind, though what the poor monk will do I don’t know. Anyhow he had a lot of hair and whiskers, didn’t he?”
“No, Bob,” answered the agent, “he didn’t. You got that one man right—he had a hook all right. But the other was smooth-shaved and his hair wasn’t any longer than mine.”
Bob was staggered for a minute. Then a light broke in on him.
“Of course!” he cried. “He could have taken off the false beard and wig, or have stopped long enough, somewhere, to get a hair cut and a shave.”
“He had a shave, Bob, I’ll testify to that. I was close to him when he bought the tickets.”
“Bought tickets, did he? Where to, Mr. Dawson?”