'andy enough, but I don't know _you_, and--"

"But Mr. Rutton?"

"Is a party I've never 'eard of, if you'll excuse my sayin' so, no
more'n I 'ave of yourself, sir."

"Well!" began Amber; but paused, his face hardening as he looked the
man up and down, nodding slowly.

"Per'aps," continued Mr. Doggott, unabashed, "you mistyke me for my
brother, 'Enery Doggott. 'E was 'ome, in England, larst I 'eard of 'im.
We look a deal alike, I've been told."

"You would be," admitted Amber drily; and, shutting his teeth upon his
inherent contempt for a liar, he swung away, acknowledging with a curt
nod the civil "Good-arfternoon, sir," that followed him.

The man had disappeared by the time Amber regained his kit-bag and
gun-case; standing over which he surveyed his surroundings with some
annoyance, discovering that he now shared the station with none but the
ticket-agent. A shambling and disconsolate youth, clad in a three-days'
growth of beard, a checked jumper and khaki trousers, this person
lounged negligently in the doorway of the waiting-room and, caressing
his rusty chin with nicotine-dyed fingers, regarded the stranger in
Nokomis with an air of subtle yet vaguely melancholy superiority.

"If ye're lookin' for th' hotel," he volunteered unexpectedly, "there
aint none;" and effected a masterly retreat into the ticket-booth.