I would have given anything not to have had to answer.
“No hat was found with the body,” I said. Atkins, I noticed, was again looking fixedly at his wife, who had grown deathly white, and sat staring at him, as if hypnotised. Both had, apparently, forgotten me, but yet I felt deeply embarrassed at being present, and dropped my eyes to my plate so as to give them a chance to regain their composure unobserved.
“Has the hat been found?” I heard her inquire, and her high soprano voice had again that peculiar grating quality I had noticed during her interview with the Coroner.
“Yes,” I answered, “it was found in Argot’s possession. He actually wore it, and laid it down under my nose. Insanity can go no further.”
“But how did you know it was the missing hat?” demanded Atkins, without taking his eyes off his wife.
What could I answer? I was appalled at the dilemma into which my vanity and stupidity had led me.
“I suspected it was the hat which was wanted,” I blundered on, “because Mr. Merritt had told me he was looking for an ordinary white straw containing the name of a Chicago hatter. Argot’s hat answered to this description, and, as the Frenchman had never been West, I concluded that he had not got it by fair means.”
“So the dead man hailed from Chicago, did he?” inquired Atkins.
“The detective thinks so,” I answered.
“Have the police discovered his name yet?”