They replaced the grating and the billet of wood, and stealing silently out of the yard, rode back to Ashburton.
With the coat wrapped in paper and packed in his suitcase, French took an early bus to Newton Abbot. There he soon found Messrs. Shrubsole’s establishment and asked for the proprietor.
“It’s not easy to say whose it was,” Mr. Shrubsole declared when he had examined the coat. “You see, these labels of ours are printed—that is, our name and address. But the customer’s name is written and it would not last in the same way. I’m afraid I cannot read it.”
“If it had been possible to read it, I should not have come to you, Mr. Shrubsole. I want you to get at it from the cloth and size and probable age and things of that kind. You can surely find out all those things by examination.”
This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted that something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant, fell to scrutinising the garment.
“It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much of last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth. “See, if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.”
“That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the measurements?”
“Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped and shrunk from the water.”
“Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile.
An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to the books and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole announced the result.