Silverdale stared at the rent in the cloth with dismay gathering on his face. He looked like a man who finds himself surrounded by enemies in unknown strength.
“I can't account for it,” he said curtly, with whitened lips.
“Or for this blood-stain on it, I suppose?” Flamborough demanded, putting his finger on the spot.
Silverdale's discomposure became even more obvious. It was clear that he felt himself in a most dangerous position; and his denials betrayed his nervousness.
“I've no idea how it came there. I noticed nothing of the sort when I took the coat off last night. Neither the tear nor that stain. I can't account for it at all.”
“You're sure you can't?” the Inspector persisted.
“I can't,” Silverdale repeated.
Much to the Inspector's annoyance, Markfield broke into the interrogation.
“Why are you so sure that Dr. Silverdale has anything to do with the matter?” he interjected in a sardonic tone. “It's not impossible that someone borrowed his jacket last night after he'd gone. Several of us were on the premises after he left, I know.”
Flamborough, glancing up, surprised an expression on Sir Clinton's face which indicated that his opinion of Markfield had risen on account of this interposition; and the Inspector felt his irritation against Markfield increasing once more.