The piercing green eyes of a man in his late sixties to early  seventies penetrated Ken Frane’s furrowed brow. Ken nodded but there was no acknowledgement from the other man. Frane was not ready to leave. It was lovely and warm inside and the first few flakes of December snow were beginning to fall outside. The man who was still staring through him, was very well covered. A warm brown sheepskin jacket albeit a rather tatty one.