"They sort o' stuck out." "And his nose?
Big or little?
Heavy or thin ?" Haney considered that thoughtfully for a moment before he answered.
Then: "Sort o' medium nose, Boss, with a point on it." "And a thin face, naturally.

How much did he weigh ?" "Oh, he was a little feller--skinny, you know.

I reckon he didn't weigh no more'n a hundred an' twenty-five or thirty." Some germ had been born in the fertile mind of Mr.Birnes; now it burst into maturity.

He leaned forward in his chair and stared coldly at Haney.
"Perhaps," he suggested slowly, "perhaps he had a scar on his face ?" Haney returned the gaze dully for an instant, then suddenly he nodded his head.
"Yes, a scar," he said.
"From here ?" Mr.Birnes placed one finger on the point of his chin and drew it across his right jaw.
"Yes, a scar--that's it;" the prisoner acquiesced, "from his chin almost around to his ear." Mr.Birnes came to his feet, while the official police stared.

The chief sat down again and crossed his fat legs.
"Why, what do _you_ know, Birnes ?" he queried.
"I know the _man_, Chief," the detective burst out confidently.