"I suppose Mike worked all day?"
"Yes, sir, he was about on the place the entire time."
Oakes made no remark whatever at this, but dismissed Cook.
"We cannot go too far in presence of the servants," said he, "for I am only Clark the agent here, you remember. The time is coming when we may have to declare ourselves and we may need police help to make arrests, but," he smiled, "we have Hallen as a friend, I guess."
Oakes was calmly sanguine, I could see, but of course he did not know that collateral events were brewing of grave importance to us all.
"Now for the robe and mask," said he.
I handed over the mask, an old affair and considerably worn from usage. A piece of it was missing, which Oakes replaced with the fragment of paper picked up in the cellar; it fitted exactly, settling the fact that the mask had been worn by the man who fought him in that place.
The detective looked it all over and said: "This is such as was sold in New York years ago. It is ordinary, and offers no clue as to the owner or the place of purchase. I know the kind."
The robe was fairly long, and made of old velvet lined with satin, quite shiny inside and out. The name of its maker had been carefully cut away. It was spotted with blood—Oakes's, no doubt—for it was fresh.
"It served a good purpose this time, anyway," said I; "saved the man's clothes from being marked."