We admitted that we did not understand.
“I’ve heard of this Black Bennett,” I said in surprise, “but who is he? Tell us.”
“Who is he?” growled Seal, knitting his shaggy brows darkly. “Who is he? Why, he’s about the worst swab I’ve ever met—and that’s saying a good deal!”
“But what is there against him?” I demanded anxiously.
“Almost everything short of murder. Christmas! I didn’t know that he was mixed up in this affair. You will have to be cute, doctor, for if Black Bennett’s one of ’em you can bet your boots that the crowd ain’t particular good company.”
“Well,” I said, “I’d like to get a glance at this very interesting person.” And, rising, I opened the door and passed through into the bar on the pretext of obtaining some matches.
The man, who was seated on the edge of the beery table smoking a briar and drinking a tankard of ale, gave me the impression of an idle lounger. He was above the average height, with a round, red face, grey hair and beard, and dressed in what appeared to me to be a ready-made suit of dark tweed. His straw hat was browned by the sun and much the worse for wear. As I entered he glanced at me quickly with his keen dark eyes; then, turning as though he did not recognize me, he lifted his glass and took a deep drink.
In the fellow’s appearance there was certainly little to recommend him. I did not like his eyes. His round, ruddy face would have passed as that of an easy-going, contented man, had it not been for the hard, cruel expression when he had glanced at me. I noticed his hands. One held his pipe and the other rested upon the edge of the table. He carried it three parts doubled up, with the nails pointing in towards the palm, while on his knuckles were old scars. These signs told me at once that he was a sailor, although there was nothing nautical about his dress. The drawn-up hand betrayed constant rope-hauling, and the scars were those of old salt cracks which the water had made on his hands in his early days at sea.
Having obtained the matches I rejoined my companions, whereupon Reilly slipped out through the stable yard and was absent only a minute or two. When he returned he said to us in a low voice, “Yes; that’s the man who struck Miss Bristowe. I’d recognize him among a million.” And at that moment we heard the man wish the landlady “good-day” and depart.
Then, at my suggestion, Reilly related to Seal all that he had witnessed on that memorable night at Kilburn.