Lyndon Rushcroft was a tall, saggy man of fifty. Despite his
determined erectness, he was inclined to sag from the shoulders down.
His head, huge and grey, appeared to be much too ponderous for his
yielding body, and yet he carried it manfully, even theatrically. The
lines in his dark, seasoned face were like furrows; his nose was large
and somewhat bulbous, his mouth wide and grim. Thick, black eyebrows
shaded a pair of eyes in which white was no longer apparent; it had
given way to a permanent red. A two days' stubble covered his chin and
cheeks. Altogether he was a singular exemplification of one's idea of
the old-time actor. He was far better dressed than the two male
members of his company who had come under Barnes' observation. A
fashionably made cutaway coat of black, a fancy waistcoat, and
trousers with a delicate stripe (sadly in need of creasing) gave him
an air of distinction totally missing in his subordinates. (Afterwards
Barnes was to learn that he was making daily use of his last act
drawing-room costume, which included a silk hat and a pair of pearl
grey gloves.) Evidently he had possessed the foresight to "skip out"
in the best that the wardrobe afforded, leaving his ordinary garments
for the sheriff to lay hands upon.

"A customary adventure with me," said Barnes. "I take a month's
walking tour every spring, usually timing my pilgrimage so as to miss
the hoi-polloi that blunders into the choice spots of the world later
on and spoils them completely for me. This is my first jaunt into this
part of New England. Most attractive walking, my dear fellow.
Wonderful scenery, splendid air--" "Deliver me from the hoi-polloi,"
said Mr. Rushcroft, at his ease once more. "I may also add, deliver me
from walking. I'm damned if I can see anything in it. What will you
have to drink, old chap?"