The girl blushed and replied in a confused voice: “He has a wife and three

children in England. Corinne wrote me that, to explain why she had gone off with

him.”

 

“They usually do,” Spade said, “though not always in England.” He leaned forward

to reach for pencil and pad of paper. “What does he look like?”

 

“Oh, he’s thirty-five years old, perhaps, and as tall as you, and either

naturally dark or quite sunburned. His hair is dark too, and he has thick

eyebrows. He talks in a rather loud, blustery way and has a nervous, irritable

manner. He gives the impression of being—of violence.”

 

Spade, scribbling on the pad, asked without looking up: “What color eyes?”

 

“They’re blue-grey and watery, though not in a weak way. And—oh, yes—he has a

marked cleft in his chin.”

 

“Thin, medium, or heavy build?”

 

“Quite athletic. He’s broad-shouldered and carries himself erect, has what could

be called a decidedly military carriage. He was wearing a light grey suit and a

grey hat when I saw him this morning.”

 

“What does he do for a living?” Spade asked as he laid down his pencil.