The light shone full in the face of the stranger. The skin of his face was brown but Watchman thought it had only recently acquired this colour. His hair stood up in white bristles, his forehead was garnished with bumps that shone in the lamplight. The eyes under the bleached lashes seemed almost without color. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth ran grooves that lent emphasis to the fall of the lips. Without raising his head the man looked up at Watchman and the shadow of a smile seemed to visit his face. He got up and made as if to go to the door, but Watchman stopped him.

“May I introduce myself?” asked Watchman.

The man smiled broadly. “They are teeth,” thought Watchman and he added: “We have met already this evening but we didn’t exchange names. Mine is Luke Watchman.”

“I gathered as much from your conversation,” said the man. He paused a moment and then said: “Mine is Legge.”

“I’m afraid I sounded uncivil,” said Watchman. “I hope you’ll allow me a little motorists’ license. One always abuses the other man, doesn’t one?”

“You’d every excuse,” mumbled Legge, “every excuse.” He scarcely moved his lips. His teeth seemed too large for his mouth. He looked sideways at Watchman, picked up a magazine from the settle, and flipped it open, holding it before his face.

Watchman felt vaguely irritated. He had struck no sort of response from the man and he was not accustomed to falling flat. Obviously, Legge merely wished to be rid of him and this state of affairs piqued Watchman’s vanity. He sat on the edge of the table, and, for the second time that evening, offered his cigarette case to Legge.

“No, thanks;—pipe.”

“I’d no idea I should find you here,” said Watchman and noticed uncomfortably that his own voice sounded disproportionately cordial, “although you did tell me you were bound for Otttercombe. It’s a good pub, isn’t it?”