Moreover, Polly distinctly felt guilty about the whole thing. She had promised to meet Dickie--that is Mr. Richard Frobisher--at two o'clock sharp outside the Palace Theatre, because she wanted to go to a Maud Allan _matinée_, and because he naturally wished to go with her. But at two o'clock sharp she was still in Norfolk Street, Strand, inside an A.B.C. shop, sipping cold coffee opposite a grotesque old man who was fiddling with a bit of string. How could she be expected to remember Maud Allan or the Palace Theatre, or Dickie himself for a matter of that? The man in the corner had begun to talk of that mysterious death on the underground railway, and Polly had lost count of time, of place, and circumstance. She had gone to lunch quite early, for she was looking forward to the _matinée_ at the Palace. The old scarecrow was sitting in his accustomed place when she came into the A.B.C. shop, but he had made no remark all the time that the young girl was munching her scone and butter. She was just busy thinking how rude he was not even to have said "Good morning," when an abrupt remark from him caused her to look up. "Will you be good enough," he said suddenly, "to give me a description of the man who sat next to you just now, while you were having your cup of coffee and scone." Involuntarily Polly turned her head towards the distant door, through which a man in a light overcoat was even now quickly passing. That man had certainly sat at the next table to hers, when she first sat down to her coffee and scone: he had finished his luncheon--whatever it was--moment ago, had paid at the desk and gone out. The incident did not appear to Polly as being of the slightest consequence. Therefore she did not reply to the rude old man, but shrugged her shoulders, and called to the waitress to bring her bill. "Do you know if he was tall or short, dark or fair?" continued the man in the corner, seemingly not the least disconcerted by the young girl's indifference. "Can you tell me at all what he was like?" "Of course I can," rejoined Polly impatiently, "but I don't see that my description of one of the customers of an A.B.C. shop can have the slightest importance." He was silent for a minute, while his nervous fingers fumbled about in his capacious pockets in search of the inevitable piece of string. When he had found this necessary "adjunct to thought," he viewed the young girl again through his half-closed lids, and added maliciously: "But supposing it were of paramount importance that you should give an accurate description of a man who sat next to you for half an hour to-day, how would you proceed?" "I should say that he was of medium height--" "Five foot eight, nine, or ten?" he interrupted quietly. "How can one tell to an inch or two?" rejoined Polly crossly. "He was between colours." "What's that?" he inquired blandly. "Neither fair nor dark--his nose--" "Well, what was his nose like? Will you sketch it?"