"Brotherson. A very uncommon person in many respects; quite capable
of such an eccentricity, but incapable, I should say, of crime. He's
a gifted talker and so well read that he can hold one's attention for
hours. Of his tastes, I can only say that they appear to be mainly
scientific. But he is not averse to society, and is always very well
dressed."

"A taste for science and for fine clothing do not often go together."

"This man is an exception to all rules. The one I'm speaking of, I
mean. I don't say that he's the fellow seen pottering in the snow."

"Call up Clausen."

The manager stepped to the telephone.

Meanwhile, George had advanced to speak to a man who had beckoned
to him from the other side of the room, and with whom in another
moment I saw him step out. Thus deserted, I sank into a chair near
one of the windows. Never had I felt more uncomfortable. To
attribute guilt to a totally unknown person--a person who is little
more to you than a shadowy silhouette against a background of snow
--is easy enough and not very disturbing to the conscience. But
to hear that person named; given positive attributes; lifted from
the indefinite into a living, breathing actuality, with a man's
hopes, purposes and responsibilities, is an entirely different
proposition. This Brotherson might be the most innocent person
alive; and, if so, what had we done? Nothing to congratulate
ourselves upon, certainly. And George was not present to comfort
and encourage me. He was--