I was more puzzled than ever.
“Well,” said I, slowly, “I of course can see how a bit of swan's-down and a lock of yellow hair backed up by a pair of silver-tinsel tights might constitute reasonable evidence in a suit for separation, but wouldn't it—ah—be more to your purpose if I should use these data as establishing the identity of—er—somebody else?”
“How very dense you are,” she replied, impatiently. “That's precisely what I want you to do.”
“But you told me it was your identity you wished proven,” I put in, irritably.
“Precisely,” said she.
“Then these bits of evidence are—yours?” I asked, hesitatingly. One does not like to accuse a lady of an undue liking for tinsel.
“They are all I have left of my husband,” she answered with a sob.
“Hum!” said I, my perplexity increasing. “Was the—ah—the gentleman blown up by dynamite?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, rising and running the scales. “I think, after all, I have come to the wrong shop. Have you Hawkshaw's address handy? You are too obtuse for a detective.”
My reputation was at stake, so I said, significantly: