Besides these, a tall slim man stood leaning
against the bar, at the far end of it, talking to Bill Smithers, the
landlord, and sipping whisky-and-soda between pulls at his cigar. He wore
a neat dark overcoat, brown shoes, and a bowler hat rather on one side;
his appearance was, in fact, genteel, though his air was a trifle
raffish. In age he seemed about forty. The Sergeant had never seen him
before, and therefore favored him with a glance of special attention.
Oddly enough, the gentlemanly stranger seemed to reciprocate the
Sergeant's interest; he gave him quite a long glance. Then he finished
his whisky-and-soda, spoke a word to Bill Smithers, and lounged across
the room to where the Sergeant sat.
"It's poor work drinking alone on Christmas night," he observed. "May I
join you? I've ordered a little something, and, well, we needn't bother
about offering a gentleman a glass tonight."
The Sergeant eyed him with apparent disfavor--as, indeed, he did
everybody who approached him--but a nod of his head accorded the desired
permission. Smithers came across with a bottle of brandy and glasses.
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