“None of your business, I suppose?” Inspector Armadale put in, with an obvious sneer.
“None of my business, as you say,” Marden returned, equably. “I wasn’t engaged as a detective.”
“Well, this question falls into your department,” Sir Clinton intervened, as Armadale showed signs of losing his temper. “What costume was Mr. Foss wearing on the night of the masked ball? You must know that.”
Marden replied without hesitation.
“He was got up as a cow-puncher. He hired the costume from London when he heard about the fancy dress. It was a pair of cow-boy trousers, big heavy things with fringes on them; a leather belt with a pistol-holster on it; a coloured shirt; a neck-cloth; and a flappy cow-boy hat.”
“Rather a clumsy rig-out, then?”
Marden seemed to find difficulty in repressing a smile.
“It was as much as he could do to walk at all, until he got accustomed to the things. He told me it gave him a good excuse for not dancing. He wasn’t a dancing man, he said.”
“He carried a revolver, you say. Did you ever see any sign that he was afraid of anything of this sort happening to him?”
“I don’t understand. How could I know what he was afraid of or what he wasn’t? It was none of my business.”