“The son-of-a-gun,” said McKnight. “And you paid him, I suppose?”
“I gave him five dollars,” was the apologetic answer. Mrs. Carter, hearing sounds of strife in the yard, went out, and Hotchkiss folded up his papers.
“I think the identity of the man is established,” he said. “What number of hat do you wear, Mr. Blakeley?”
“Seven and a quarter,” I replied.
“Well, it’s only piling up evidence,” he said cheerfully. “On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the second button of the shirt missing. Your hat had ‘L. B.’ in gilt letters inside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock.”
“Hush,” McKnight protested. “If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr. Blakeley was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a button missing and a hole in one sock, she’ll retire to the Old Ladies’ Home. I’ve heard her threaten it.”
Mr. Hotchkiss was without a sense of humor. He regarded McKnight gravely and went on:
“I’ve been up in the room where the man lay while he was unable to get away, and there is nothing there. But I found what may be a possible clue in the dust heap.
“Mrs. Carter tells me that in unpacking his grip the other day she took out of the coat of the pajamas some pieces of a telegram. As I figure it, the pajamas were his own. He probably had them on when he effected the exchange.”
I nodded assent. All I had retained of my own clothing was the suit of pajamas I was wearing and my bath-robe.