"I don't know yet, Mr. Gresham, whether this particular loss of yours will prove to be a trifling matter or not. Do you know Robert Pembroke?"
"The man who was murdered a few days ago?"
"Yes."
"No, I never knew him; but I read in the papers of the poor fellow's death and thought it most shocking. I trust they will discover the murderer and avenge the crime."
If Mr. Gresham were implicated in the affair, he certainly carried off this conversation with a fine composure. But I resolved to startle his calm if I could.
"Then can you explain, Mr. Gresham," I said, "how this handkerchief of yours happened to be found on the bed of the murdered man the morning after the murder?"
"Great Heavens, no! nor do I believe it was found there!"
"But it was, for I myself found it."
"My handkerchief! In Mr. Pembroke's bedroom! Impossible!"
The man spoke with an angry inflection and a rising color, and I watched him narrowly. Either this was the just indignation of an innocent man, or else it was the carefully rehearsed dissimulation of a clever wrong-doer. My instinct and my reason told me he was innocent, but my inclinations so strongly hoped for some hint of his guilt, that I persevered.