"No, it's not!" replied Roydon, in a frightened voice. "I never saw it before in my life!"
Hemingway stared disconcertingly at him for a moment, and then straightened the handkerchief, and pointed with the butt of his pencil to the embroidered letter in the corner.
"I don't know anything about it!" Roydon said obstinately.
"Laundry-marks, too," observed Hemingway. "Easily identified."
There was an awful silence. Nothing in Roydon's experience had fitted him to cope with such a situation as this. He was badly frightened, and showed it.
"You put it into the incinerator by the potting-sheds, didn't you?" said Hemingway.
"No."
"Come, come, sir, you're not doing yourself any good by telling lies to me! I know you put it there."
Roydon seemed to crumple up. "I know what you think, but you're wrong! I didn't murder Mr. Herriard! I didn't, I tell you!"
"How did your handkerchief come to be in this state?"