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III
About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the
kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the
mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house.
Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind
the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a
man. Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present,
unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops.
Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice:
“Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?”
“That’s right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six o’clock. That the one you mean?”
Rowley nodded.
“He passed my place. Asked his way.”
“That’s right. Seems a stranger.”
“I wondered,” said Rowley, “who he was.”
He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back.
“That’s easy, Mr. Rowley, if you’d like to know.”
She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the
arrivals.
She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows:
Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British.
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