I sprang quickly to the door, and looked down the passage out into the village street; but he had already made his exit. By the time I had reached the porch of the inn he was already striding quickly along the dusty highway. He turned to glance back, and I perceived that he was thin-faced, with high cheekbones and a small black beard. He was carrying his thick stick jauntily, and walking smartly, with an easy gait which at that moment struck me as being distinctly military.
“Who is that man?” I inquired eagerly of the landlord, who stood beside me, evidently surprised at my sudden rush towards the door.
“A stranger, sir. I don’t know who he is.”
“When did he arrive?”
“He came by the last train to Massingham last night, sir, and had a bed here. My missis, however, didn’t like the looks of ’im.”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. There was something about him a bit peculiar. Besides, he went out before one o’clock, and didn’t return till an hour ago. Then he went up, washed, had a cup o’ tea in his room, paid, and now he’s gone.”
“Rather peculiar behaviour, isn’t it?” I suggested, hoping to find some clue to his identity from what this man might tell me. “Did he have no luggage?”
“None. He seemed a bit down on his luck. His clothes were very shabby, and he evidently hadn’t had a clean collar for a week.”
Then the opinion I had formed of him—namely, that he was shabby genteel—was correct.