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Page 27
I glanced at my watch and found that it was but little after two
o'clock. Luncheon at Cray's Folly was early. I therefore had some time
upon my hands and I determined to employ it in exploring part of the
neighbourhood. Accordingly I filled and lighted my pipe and strolled
leisurely along the footpath, enjoying the beauty of the afternoon, and
admiring the magnificent timber which grew upon the southerly slopes of
the valley.
Larks sang high above me and the air was fragrant with those wonderful
earthy scents which belong to an English countryside. A herd of very
fine Jersey cattle presently claimed inspection, and a little farther
on I found myself upon a high road where a brown-faced fellow seated
aloft upon a hay-cart cheerily gave me good-day as I passed.
Quite at random I turned to the left and followed the road, so that
presently I found myself in a very small village, the principal
building of which was a very small inn called the "Lavender Arms."
Colonel Menendez's cura�ao, combined with the heat of the day, had made
me thirsty; for which reason I stepped into the bar-parlour determined
to sample the local ale. I wars served by the landlady, a neat, round,
red little person, and as she retired, having placed a foam-capped mug
upon the counter, her glance rested for a moment upon the only other
occupant of the room, a man seated in an armchair immediately to the
right of the door. A glass of whisky stood on the window ledge at his
elbow, and that it was by no means the first which he had imbibed, his
appearance seemed to indicate.
Having tasted the cool contents of my mug, I leaned back against the
counter and looked at this person curiously.
He was apparently of about medium height, but of a somewhat fragile
appearance. He was dressed like a country gentleman, and a stick and
soft hat lay upon the ledge near his glass. But the thing about him
which had immediately arrested my attention was his really
extraordinary resemblance to Paul Harley's engraving of Edgar Allan
Poe.
I wondered at first if Harley's frequent references to the eccentric
American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were
responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight
one existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of
the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in my
curiosity, I stared rather rudely.
"You will pardon me, sir," said the stranger, and I was startled to
note that he spoke with a faint American accent, "but are you a
literary man?"
As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no
means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly
enough.
"Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,"
I replied, lightly.
"You are not a fiction writer?"
"I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir."
The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky.
"Nevertheless," he said, and raised his finger solemnly, "you were
thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. "You
clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to
inform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere glance of mine."
"I will tell you, sir," he replied. "But, first, I must replenish my
glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish
yours."
"Thanks very much," I said, "but I would rather you excused me."
"As you wish, sir," replied the American with grave courtesy, "as you
wish."
He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown,
until the landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but
refilled the empty glass.
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