Further search through the coat discovered a card-case with cards bearing the name Henry Pinckney Sullivan, and a leather flask with gold mountings, filled with what seemed to be very fair whisky, and monogrammed H. P. S.

“His name evidently is Henry Pinckney Sullivan,” said the cheerful follower of Poe, as he wrote it down.  “Address as yet unknown.  Blond, probably.  Have you noticed that it is almost always the blond men who affect a very light gray, with a touch of red in the scarf?  Fact, I assure you.  I kept a record once of the summer attire of men, and ninety per cent, followed my rule.  Dark men like you affect navy blue, or brown.”

In spite of myself I was amused at the man’s shrewdness.

“Yes; the suit he took was dark—­a blue,” I said.  He rubbed his hands and smiled at me delightedly.  “Then you wore black shoes, not tan,” he said, with a glance at the aggressive yellow ones I wore.

“Right again,” I acknowledged.  “Black low shoes and black embroidered hose.  If you keep on you’ll have a motive for the crime, and the murderer’s present place of hiding.  And if you come back to the smoker with me, I’ll give you an opportunity to judge if he knew good whisky from bad.”

I put the articles from the pockets back again and got up.  “I wonder if there is a diner on?” I said.  “I need something sustaining after all this.”

I was conscious then of some one at my elbow.  I turned to see the young woman whose face was so vaguely familiar.  In the very act of speaking she drew back suddenly and colored.

“Oh,—­I beg your pardon,” she said hurriedly, “I—­thought you were—­some one else.”  She was looking in a puzzled fashion at my coat.  I felt all the cringing guilt of a man who has accidentally picked up the wrong umbrella:  my borrowed collar sat tight on my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I said idiotically.  “I’m sorry, but—­I’m not.”  I have learned since that she has bright brown hair, with a loose wave in it that drops over her ears, and dark blue eyes with black lashes and—­but what does it matter?  One enjoys a picture as a whole:  not as the sum of its parts.

She saw the flask then, and her errand came back to her.  “One of the ladies at the end of car has fainted,” she explained.  “I thought perhaps a stimulant—­”

I picked up the flask at once and followed my guide down the aisle.  Two or three women were working over the woman who had fainted.  They had opened her collar and taken out her hairpins, whatever good that might do.  The stout woman was vigorously rubbing her wrists, with the idea, no doubt, of working up her pulse!  The unconscious woman was the one for whom I had secured lower eleven at the station.

I poured a little liquor in a bungling masculine fashion between her lips as she leaned back, with closed eyes.  She choked, coughed, and rallied somewhat.

“Poor thing,” said the stout lady.  “As she lies back that way I could almost think it was my mother; she used to faint so much.”