“Why, yes,” said the sergeant, scratching his head with a meditative finger. “You’ll place him in the hollow half of a minute. He’s much like other men, neither very big nor very little; less tall than the tallest, and by no means as short as the shortest. You can’t well miss him.” Sharp as our peril was, I had to laugh at Champe’s notion of a description. But time was pressing. “Try it again, Sergeant,” I encouraged. “This time I’ll help you. Just answer my questions one at a time and we’ll have him. First, how old would you take him to be?” Champe knitted his brows thoughtfully. “By grabs, Captain Dick, I never thought to ask him!” “No, no; of course you couldn’t ask him. But fire a guess at it. Is he a young man?” “No; I wouldn’t call him young; say thirty, or forty, or maybe fifty, or so.” “Great Marlborough!” I raged. “Can’t you come any nearer to it than that? How about his eyes--what color are they?” “Hum--his eyes; well, now, there you have me again, Captain. They are devilish sharp little eyes; I can tell you that. But lord! I couldn’t name you their color in a month of Sundays.” “By all the blind pipers that ever twiddled a horn-pipe--I don’t believe you looked at him at all!” I broke out, annoyed beyond measure at this unexpected development of the sergeant’s weak point. “Is it any use to ask you how he was dressed?” Champe’s face lightened now, and the frown of perplexity smoothed itself out. “Surely; I can tell you that to the dotting of an ‘i.’ I remember noticing particularly that he was dressed quite like other folk--buckle-shoes, breeches, waistcoat, coat and hat. There you have him from head to foot.” “Heavens and earth, man!” I exclaimed. “How in the devil’s name am I to help in this if you can’t give me the first living idea of the fellow I’m to look for? Think, Sergeant--think hard. Surely there must have been some noticeable thing about him that would serve to place him for me.” Champe put his head in his hands and appeared to be making the mental effort of a lifetime. After a long minute he looked up to say: “I’ve got it, Captain Dick, I’ve got it. Come to think of it, I’m almost sure he wore a scratch-wig like a farmer’s.” I shook my head in despair. Half the men in America wore scratch-wigs. Yet the edge of the necessity was in no wise dulled by Champe’s inability to visualize the spy for me. “Try it again, Sergeant,” I entreated; and now he got up and began to walk the floor, cracking the joints of his big fingers and scowling ferociously in the throes of recollection. I venture to say he walked a full quarter-mile up and down the long room before he stopped to make his final dash at the impregnable barrier.