p, as the women 'ud call handsome, sort of rakish
fellow, you understand. Dressed very smart. Blue serge suit--good
stuff, new. Straw hat--black band. Brown boots--polished and shining.
Quite the swell--as Netherfield always was, even when he'd got through
his money. The gentleman! Lord bless your souls, I knew him, for all
that I hadn't seen him for several years, and that he'd grown a
beard!"

"A beard, eh--" interrupted Scarterfield.

"Beard and moustache," assented Fish.

"What colour?" asked Scarterfield.

"What you might call a golden-brown," replied Fish. "Cut--the beard
was--to a point. Suited him."

Scarterfield drew out his pocket-book and produced a slightly-faded
photograph--that of a certain good-looking, rather nattish young man,
taken in company with a fox-terrier. He handed it to Fish.

"Is that Baxter?" he asked.

"Aye!--as he was, years ago," said Fish. "I know that well
enough--used to be one o' them in the phottygrapher's window down the
street, outside here. But now, d'ye see, he's grown a beard.
Otherwise--the same!"

"Well?" said Scarterfield, "What happened? This man came in. Was he
alone?"

"No," replied Fish. "He'd two other men with him. One was a chap about
his own age, just as smart as what he was, and dressed similar.
T'other was an older man, in his shirt sleeves and without a
hat--seemed to me he'd brought Baxter and his friend across from some
shop or other to stand 'em a drink. Anyways, he did call for
drinks--whisky and soda--and the three on 'em stood together talking.
And as soon as I heard Baxter's voice, I was dead sure about him--he'd
always a highish voice, talked as gentlemen talks, d'ye see, for, of
course, he was brought up that way--high eddicated, you understand?"

"What were these three talking about?" asked Scarterfield.

"Far as I could make out about ship's fittings," answered Fish.
"Something 'o that sort, anyway, but I didn't take much notice o'
their talk; I was too much taken up watching Baxter, and growing more
certain every minute, d'ye see, that it was him. And 'cepting that a
few o' years does make a bit o' difference, and that he's grown a
beard, I didn't see no great alteration in him. Yet I see one thing."

"Aye?" asked Scarterfield. "What, now?"

"A scar on his left cheek," replied Fish. "What begun underneath his
beard, as covered most of it, and went up to his cheek-bone. Just an
inch or so showing, d'ye understand? 'That's been knife's wor