denly I noticed a tall man, wearing a tweed cap and a
long covert-coat, his hands in his pockets, a stumpy cigar stuck in
the corner of his mouth. His hair was gray, and his face bore signs of
a tough struggle in early youth. His complexion was of that curious
gray-yellow one sees frequently in America and occasionally in
Denmark--something quite distinct from the bronze-gray of many
colonials. I nudged Dennis.

"What did you make of that?" I asked him after we had passed.

"I should be much more interested to know what 'that' made of us," he
replied.

"Nothing, I should think," I answered carelessly. "Why, the man's eyes
were nearly closed, he was half asleep. I bet he hasn't taken the
slightest notice of anyone for the past ten minutes. You could commit
a murder under his nose and he wouldn't see it."

"I think not," said Dennis quietly. "I fancy that if you took out a
cigarette-case as you passed him he would be able to tell you
afterwards how many cigarettes you had left in the case, what brand
they were, and what the monogram on the front was. If you've any
murders to commit, Ronnie, I should be careful to see that our
American friend is some thousands of miles away."

"Good heavens, you old sleuth!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "I never
saw a more innocent-looking man in my life."

"I hate innocent people," said Dennis emphatically; "they are usually
dangerous, and seldom half as innocent as they look."

"But what makes you think this man is only pretending to look like a
dreaming, unobservant idiot, and why do you call him American so
definitely?"

"He may or may not be American; but we have to give him a name for
purposes of classification," Dennis explained. "In any case his
overcoat was made in the States; the cut of the lapels is quite
unmistakable. I knew an American who tried everywhere to get a coat
cut like that over here, and failed. As to his being observant, you
seem to have overlooked one important fact. There the man stands,
apparently half asleep. Occasionally he displays a certain amount of
life--tucks his papers more tightly under his arms, and so on. Now,
the man who has been dreaming on a station platform and is obviously
going by the train would wake up to look at the clock, or glance round
to see how many are travelling, and generally take an interest in the
bustle of the station. But this man doesn't. Why? Because he only
wakes up when his interest wanders, and that is only when he