The man looked as if
he had seen things in life--a big, burly, bearded man of apparently sixty
years of age, hard, bronzed; something about him suggested sun and wind
as they are met with in the far-off places. Usually he was seen in loose,
comfortable, semi-nautical suits of blue serge; there was a roll in his
walk that suggested the sea. But here, as he lay before Viner, he was in
evening dress, with a light overcoat thrown over it; the overcoat was
unbuttoned and the shirt-front exposed. And on it that sickening crimson
stain widened and widened as Viner watched.
Here, without doubt, was murder, and Viner's thoughts immediately turned
to two things--one the hurrying young man whose face he thought he had
remembered in some vague fashion; the other the fact that a policeman
was slowly pacing up the terrace close by. He turned and ran swiftly up
the still deserted passage. And there was the policeman, twenty yards
away, coming along with the leisureliness of one who knows that he has a
certain area to patrol. He pulled himself to an attitude of watchful
attention as Viner ran up to him; then suddenly recognizing Viner as a
well-known inhabitant of the Square, touched the rim of his helmet.
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