His face was insignificant, and his pale-blue eyes
showed little force. His only noticeable feature was displayed
when he removed his hat. Then it could be seen that a wide, white
scar ran from just over his temple to a point back of his right
ear.
He made his name known as Williams, which, of course, meant
nothing to the consul, and while drinking one of Weeks' high-
balls, inquired idly about the country, the climate, and the
people, as if in no hurry to come to his point. Weeks watched him
shrewdly, convinced at last by his visitor's excessive caution
that his first judgment had been wrong, and that the man was more
knowing than he seemed. Mr. Williams was likewise studying the fat
man, and when he had satisfied himself, came out openly with these
words:
"I'm looking for a chap named Wellar. He landed here some time
late in November."
"Friend of yours?"
"Um--m--not exactly." Mr. Williams ran a hand meditatively over
the ragged scar on his scalp, as if from force of habit.
"Wellar? I never heard of him."
"He may have travelled under another name. Ever hear of a fellow
called Locke?"
The consul's moist lips drew together, his red eyes gleamed
watchfully. "Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," said he. "Why do
you want him?"
"I heard he was here.
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