His tone had grown sulky, the emotion which had buoyed him up till now, seemed suddenly to have left him. With it went the fire from his eye, the quiver from his lip, and it is necessary to add, everything else calculated to awaken sympathy. He was simply sullen now.
“May I ask by which door you left the house?”
“The side door—the one I always take.”
“What overcoat did you wear?”
“I don’t remember. The first one I came to, I suppose.”
“But you can surely tell what hat?”
They expected a violent reply, and they got it.
“No, I can’t. What has my hat got to do with the guilt of Elwood Ranelagh?”
“Nothing, we hope,” was the imperturbable answer. “But we find it necessary to establish absolutely just what overcoat and what hat you wore down street that night.”
“I’ve told you that I don’t remember.” The young man’s colour was rising.