"Of course," I replied. "Is there anything wonderful in that? The name doesn't disgrace anyone."
"Hasn't he red hair?"
Well, it was quite possible that he had red hair, and now that the driver mentioned the matter, I was suddenly convinced that he was right. I felt grateful to the poor driver, and hastened to inform him that he had hit the man off to a T—he really was just as he described him,—and I remarked, in addition, that it would be a phenomenon to see such a man without red hair.
"It must be him I drove a couple of times," said the driver; "he had a knobbed stick."
This brought the man vividly before me, and I said, "Ha, ha! I suppose no one has ever yet seen the man without a knobbed stick in his hand, of that you can be certain, quite certain."
Yes, it was clear that it was the same man he had driven. He recognised him—and he drove so that the horse's shoes struck sparks as they touched the stones.
All through this phase of excitement I had not for one second lost my presence of mind. We pass a policeman, and I notice his number
