There
was a cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another
table was a large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric
lights before it. At this table was seated a small man with gray
hair studying a large number of photographs.
"If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir," said
Matthews, "Mr. Crook here will get to work. We've not got too
much time."
The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down
promptly and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of
the salad. Also he did full justice to the very excellent St.
Estephe.
As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable
Englishmen one meets in tubes and 'buses, who might be anything
from a rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair
plastered limply across his forehead, a small moustache, and a
pair of watery blue eyes. Mr. Crook, who continued his study of
his assortment of photographs without taking the slightest notice
of Desmond, was a much more alert looking individual, with a
shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a small pointed beard.
"Matthew's," said Desmond as he supped, "would it be indiscreet
to ask where we are?"
"In Kent, Major," replied Matthews.
"What station was that we started from?"
"Faversham.
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