"Well I should say not. If you have a serious thought that I could do such a deed, Dyke, place me under arrest at once."
There was an expression of rebuke on the face of Bernard as he uttered the last words. He did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and after a moment Dyke Darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions.
"Never mind, Harry, I could not help feeling shocked. Let it pass; I will not wrong you by suspicion. But you will admit that it was a strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly."
"Not at all. Put your own hand here," returned Bernard.
Dyke Darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as Harry's. It was not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so startled the detective. Harry had not discovered the true cause of his friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about it then.
Time was flying. The midnight express would soon leave the city.
"I cannot remain with you longer," said Dyke Darrel, at length. "I shall leave the case at this end of the route in your hands, Harry, and if at any time you wish to communicate with me, address me at Woodburg."
"All right. What shall we do with this?"
Harry indicated the coat that still lay on the bed.
"You may retain that, but I will keep the handkerchief. Both may be of use in the future."