"
"Mark my word, Sey," Charles said, laying the letter down, "in a
week or less the man himself will follow. This is his cunning way
of trying to make me think he's well out of the country and far
away from Seldon. That means he's meditating another descent. But
he told us too much last time, when he was Medhurst the detective.
He gave us some hints about disguises and their unmasking that I
shall not forget. This turn I shall be even with him."
On Saturday of that week, in effect, we were walking along the road
that leads into the village, when we met a gentlemanly-looking man,
in a rough and rather happy-go-lucky brown tweed suit, who had the
air of a tourist. He was middle-aged, and of middle height; he wore
a small leather wallet suspended round his shoulder; and he was
peering about at the rocks in a suspicious manner. Something in
his gait attracted our attention.
"Good-morning," he said, looking up as we passed; and Charles
muttered a somewhat surly inarticulate, "Good-morning."
We went on without saying more. "Well, _that's_ not Colonel Clay,
anyhow," I said, as we got out of earshot. "For he accosted us
first; and you may remember it's one of the Colonel's most marked
peculiarities that, like the model child, he never speaks till he's
spoken to--never begins an acquaintance.
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