“And you do not know which one you put on that cold night?”
“I do not.”
“But you know what one you wore back?”
“No.”
Short, sharp, and threatening was this no. A war was on between this man and his counsel, and the wonder it occasioned was visible in every eye. Perhaps Mr. Moffat realised this; this was what he had dreaded, perhaps. At all events, he proceeded with his strange task, in apparent oblivion of everything but his own purpose.
“You do not know what one you wore back?”
“I do not.”
“You have seen the hat and coat which have been shown here and sworn to as being the ones in which you appeared on your return to the house, the day following your sister’s murder?”
“I have.”
“Also the hat and coat found on a remote hook in the closet under the stairs, bearing the flour-mark on its under brim?”