Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o'clock he had informed me that he dined at four and, not to detain the reader with these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself, two hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the Examiner. The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany.
Fuselli's eyes followed the curves of his brilliantly-polished puttees up to the braid on his sleeves. "Parade rest!" shouted the lieutenant in a muffled voice. Feet and hands moved in unison. Fuselli was thinking of the town.
It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed out