He was tall and stringy, with a weather-beaten complexion, a long straight nose, bright, bird-like eyes, and thin brown hair which glistened with bay-rum; and he wore jodhpurs, riding-boots, a violent check hacking coat, and a yellow tie with horses’ heads on it. In his hand he carried a green pork-pie hat with ventilation holes in the top, so that it looked as if someone had been shooting at him. He stalked to the bar, rapped on it, and demanded peremptorily to be told if Professor Fen were available. ‘I am Fen,’ said Fen. The newcomer’s manner changed at once to one of great affability. He took Fen’s hand and joggled it up and down prolongedly. ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘this is a very great pleasure. Damme yes. Delighted, and all that. . . . What are you having?’ ‘Bitter, I think.’ ‘A pint of bitter, Miss, and a large Scotch for me.’ ‘You are Captain Watkyn?’ Fen asked mistrustfully. ‘You’ve got it in one, old boy,’ said Captain Watkyn with enthusiasm; it was as though he were commending Fen for the solution of a particularly awkward riddle.
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