"A typical Yorkshire cattle-dealer in his Sunday best," I suggested, as we passed another passenger. And so we went the length of the platform making rough guesses as to the professions of my fellow travellers. Suddenly I noticed a tall man, wearing a tweed cap and a long covert-coat, his hands in his pockets, a stumpy cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. His hair was gray, and his face bore signs of a tough struggle in early youth. His complexion was of that curious gray-yellow one sees frequently in America and occasionally in Denmark--something quite distinct from the bronze-gray of many colonials. I nudged Dennis. "What did you make of that?" I asked him after we had passed. "I should be much more interested to know what 'that' made of us," he replied. "Nothing, I should think," I answered carelessly. "Why, the man's eyes were nearly closed, he was half asleep. I bet he hasn't taken the slightest notice of anyone for the past ten minutes. You could commit a murder under his nose and he wouldn't see it." "I think not," said Dennis quietly. "I fancy that if you took out a cigarette-case as you passed him he would be able to tell you afterwards how many cigarettes you had left in the case, what brand they were, and what the monogram on the front was. If you've any murders to commit, Ronnie, I should be careful to see that our American friend is some thousands of miles away." "Good heavens, you old sleuth!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "I never saw a more innocent-looking man in my life." "I hate innocent people," said Dennis emphatically; "they are usually dangerous, and seldom half as innocent as they look." "But what makes you think this man is only pretending to look like a dreaming, unobservant idiot, and why do you call him American so definitely?"