“But you said you’d been sleeping in the hay,” he said stubbornly.
“Yes; on the top of a hay-cart, coming up to Whitechapel, and I went to sleep.”
Revitts began rubbing his ear in a puzzled way; and then, as if seized by a bright idea, he took out his notebook and pencil.
“Now look here,” he said, making believe to take down my words and shaking his pencil at me in a magisterial way. “Why should you have to walk nearly all the way home, because you went for a stroll in the woods with that there Hallett?”
This last with a contemptuous emphasis on the name of my companion.
“Why, I told you, Bill. When we got back to the inn the last van had gone.”
“There; now, you’re shuffling,” he said. “You never said a word about the van being gone.”
“Didn’t I, Bill? Well, I meant to say so. Mr Hallett thought it would be much nicer to go for a walk in the woods than to sit in that hot room where the men were drinking and smoking, so we did, only we stopped too long.”
Revitts shut his pocket-book with a snap, scratched his head with the end of his pencil, wetted the point between his lips, and had another scratch; then pushed the pencil into the loop at the side, replaced the book in his breast, and buttoned it up tight, as he stood staring hard at me. Then he coughed behind his hand, rubbed his ear again, unbuttoned his coat, buttoned it up tightly, cleared his throat again, and then said:
“Well, it was circumstantial evidence, cert’nly.”