He turned his eyes upward in that vacant stare which people use to aid their memory.
“Yes, I remember now! He was going to town, and I told him that if he took the county road instead of the State Road he’d see the fire on his way in.”
“What kind of looking man was he?”
“Middle-aged—a big man, but sort of slouchy. I think he had on a brown suit, baggy and wrinkled.”
“Medium complexion?”
“Yes.”
“Smile when he talked?”
“Yes, a pleasant sort of fellow.”
“Curly brown hair?”
“Have a heart!” Luce laughed. “I didn’t put him under a magnifying glass.”
From Tavender, we drove over to Wayton. Luce’s description had fit Handerson all right; but while we were at it, we thought we might as well check up to make sure that he had been coming from Wayton.
We spent exactly twenty-five minutes in Wayton; ten of them finding Hammersmith, the grocer with whom Handerson had said he dined and played pool; five minutes finding the proprietor of the poolroom; and ten verifying Handerson’s story.
“What do you think of it now, Mac?” I asked, as we rolled back toward Sacramento.