Neville opened a large wardrobe, disclosing a view of a shelf of hats, ranged neatly in a line. "Very often not," he agreed. "These are my uncle's hats. Theoretically, do you feel that private possession is all wrong? What sort of a hat was I wearing?"
"According to you, sir, you were wearing a black felt."
"Oh, don't let's be realistic! Realism has been the curse of art. That's what upset the Superintendent. He is very orthodox, and he felt my hat was an anachronism. Of course, I must have been wearing one of those that go pop. Irresistible to children, and other creatures of simple intellect, but too reminiscent of patent cigaretteboxes, and other vulgarities. Now tell me, Sergeant, do you think I borrowed my uncle's hat?"
The Sergeant, gazing at the spectacle of Mr. Neville Fletcher in an opera hat quite three sizes too small for him, fought with himself for a moment, and replied in choked accents: "No sir, I'm bound to say I do not. You'd - you'd have to have a nerve to go about in that!"
"Yes, that's what I thought," said Neville. "I like comedy, but not farce - I can see by your disgruntled expression that the hat lets me out. I hope it never again falls to my lot to be suspected of murder. Nerve-racking, and rather distasteful."
"I hope so too, sir," replied the Sergeant. "But if I were you I wouldn't jump to conclusions too hastily."
"You're bound to say that, of course," said Neville, returning his uncle's hat to its place on the shelf. "You can't imagine who the murderer can be if not me."
"Well, since you put it like that, who can it be?" demanded the Sergeant.
"I don't know, but as I don't care either, it doesn't worry me nearly as much as it worries you."
"Mr. Fletcher was your uncle, sir."