Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“And in the meantime,” said Mr. Holland, “I shall put you in charge of a confidential clerk of mine who will see that you are properly taken care of, and will be at your disposal Here, I’ll have him in and introduce him.”

If anybody had been able to look through the carefully-closed blinds of Mr. Holland’s office at a quarter past seven o’clock that evening they would have seen a dapper little gentleman who, from his attire, might have been a judge, a doctor or a barrister, leisurely finishing a bottle of claret in company with a younger man, who was obviously lost in admiration of his elderly friend’s cleverness in the art of making up.

“Well, you’re a perfect marvel in that line, Mr. Dawe,” said the confidential clerk. “I go in a good deal myself for amateur theatricals, but I couldn’t make up as you do, sir. Now that you’ve got into those clothes and done your hair in a different fashion, you look another man. And it’s your attention to small details, sir — that black cravat with the old-fashioned gold pin, and the gold-rimmed spectacles instead of your ordinary ones — my word, those little touches do make a difference!”

“It’s the details that do make a difference, young man,” said Archer Dawe. “And no detail is too small or undignif—”

A sharp tinkle of the telephone bell interrupted him. He nodded to the clerk.

“Take the message,” he said. “If it’s from Holland tell me word for word what he says.”

In another minute the clerk turned to him. “Mr. Holland says: ‘Barr has just left his house, obviously for the station. Tell Dawe to follow him wherever he goes.’ ”

“Answer ‘All right,’ ” said Archer Dawe.

He drank off his claret as the clerk hung up the receiver again and began to button his smartly-cut morning coat. His glance wandered to an overcoat, a traveling bag and a glossy hat which lay set out in orderly fashion on a side table.

“There’s lots of time, Mr. Dawe,” said the clerk, interpreting the glance. “You see, Barr lives opposite to Mr. Holland, a good three-quarters of a mile from here. He’ll walk to the station and he’ll have to pass down this street — the station’s just at the bottom. We can watch him pass this window — there, you can see out.”

Archer Dawe nodded. With a tacit understanding he and the clerk posted themselves at the window, arranging one of the slats of the Venetian blinds so that they could see into the street beneath.

Everything was very cold and still. No one came or went, up or down, until at last a man, cloaked to the eyes, carrying a bag, hurried into the light of the opposite electric lamp, crossed it and disappeared into the gloom again.

“That’s Barr!” whispered the clerk.

Archer Dawe looked at his watch.

“Eight minutes yet,” he said. “Plenty of time.”

The clerk helped the amateur detective on with his fashionable fur-lined overcoat and handed him his fashionable derby hat and gold-mounted umbrella.

“By George, you do look a real old swell!” he said, with an admiring chuckle. “Wish I could get myself up like that — it’s fine.”

“Good-by,” said Archer Dawe.

He slipped quietly out into the fog and made his way to the station. There was no one on the platform but Stephen Barr and two or three porters, moving ghostlike in the fog. The mail came steaming in and pulled up, seeming to fret at even a moment’s delay, Stephen Barr stepped in. Archer Dawe followed. The train was off again.

For a while these two, sitting side by side in the club car, scarcely spoke except to remark on the coldness of the night. At last Archer Dawe remarked pleasantly:

“It’s a great convenience to have an hotel attached to the station. One doesn’t feel inclined to drive far after a four hours’ journey at this time of night and this season of the year. It’s something to be able to step straight from the train into your hotel.”

Stephen Barr nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “and a very comfortable hotel it is, too. I always stay there when I come to town; it is very convenient, as you say.”

“And to those of us who happen to be passing through town,” said Archer Dawe, “it is much pleasanter to break the journey here than to be driven across the city at midnight to another station. Old men like me, sir, begin to appreciate their little comforts.”

The same porter carried Stephen Barr’s bag and Archer Dawe’s bag into the hotel. The clerk in the office gave Stephen Barr No. 45 and Archer Dawe No. 46.

Stephen Barr and Archer Dawe had a smoke together in the smoking room before retiring and enjoyed a little friendly conversation. Archer Dawe was perhaps a little garrulous about himself. He gave Stephen Barr to understand that he, Archer, was a famous consulting physician in New York; that he had been up State to an important consultation, and that he had spent a few hours at Normancaster on his way back to visit an old friend.