The man walked on to the forward part of the boat; leaving the
youth, who had been in a sort of daze, watching. But it was not
for long. The whole thing had been strange and to the lad almost
inexplicable. The man was not insane, he was certain; and he was
just as sure that he had not been joking. From the start he had
been taken by the man's refinement, intellect and education. He
was positive that he had been sincere. Yet--

The ferry detective happened at that moment to be passing. The
clerk made an indication with his thumb.

"That man yonder," he spoke, "the one in black. Watch him." Then
he told his story. The detective laughed and walked forward.

It was a most fortunate incident. It was a strange case. That mere
act of the cigar clerk placed the police on the track and gave to
the world the only clue that it holds of the Blind Spot.

The detective had laughed at the lad's recital--almost any one had
a patent for being queer--and if this gentleman had a whim for a
certain brand of humour that was his business. Nevertheless, he
would stroll forward.

The man was not hard to distinguish; he was standing on the
forward deck facing the wind and peering through the mist at the
grey, heavy heave of the water. Alongside of them the dim shadow
of a sister ferry screamed its way through the fogbank. That he
was a landsman was evidenced by his way of standing; he was
uncertain; at every heave of the boat he would shift sidewise. An