Then the handkerchief is produced; is presented to him.
"Doctor Heath, is that yours?" Every man holds his breath; every man is visibly agitated; every man save the witness.
Coolly lifting his hand to his breast pocket, he draws from thence a folded handkerchief; he shakes out the snowy square, and offers it to the coroner.
"It is mine or an exact counterpart of mine. Your honor can compare them."
Astonishment sits on every face. What matchless coolness! what a splendid display of conscious innocence! or of cool effrontery!
The coroner examines the two pieces of linen long and closely, then he passes them to one of the jurymen; and then they go from hand to hand; and all the while Clifford Heath stands watching the scrutiny. Not eagerly, not even with interest, rather with a bored look, as if he must see something, and with every feature locked in impenetrable calm.
Finally the coroner receives them back. They are precisely alike, and so says his honor:
"Clifford Heath, do you believe this handkerchief, which I hold in my hand, and which was recently found upon the face of this dead man, to be, or to have been yours?"
"I do," calmly.
"Are you aware that you have recently lost such a handkerchief?"