"Many a man has been hanged upon less," was the oracular answer of Sergeant Delves.
"What part of my deductions do you object to?" inquired Mr. Dare of the Quaker.
"Thee art assuming—if I understand thee correctly—that there is no other cloak in the city so similar to William's as to be mistaken for it."
"Just so."
"Then, friend, I tell thee that there is."
Mr. Dare opened his eyes. "Who wears it?" he asked.
"That is another question," said Samuel Lynn. "I should be glad to find out myself, for curiosity's sake."
Then Mr. Lynn told the story of his having observed a man, whom he had taken for William, walking at the back of his house, apparently waiting for something. "I saw him on two evenings," he observed, "at some considerable interval of time. The figure bore a perfect resemblance to William Halliburton; the height, the cloak, the cap—all appeared to be his. I taxed him with it. He denied it in toto, said he had not been walking there at all, and I believed he was attempting, for the first time since I have known him, to deceive me. I——"
"Are you sure he was not?" put in Mr. Dare.
"Thee should allow me to finish, friend. Last night I was home somewhat earlier than usual—thee can recollect why," the Quaker added, looking at Mr. Ashley. "I was up in my room, and I saw the same figure pacing about in precisely the same manner. William's denial had staggered me, otherwise I could have been ready to affirm that it was himself and no other. The moon was not up; but it was a very light night, and I marked every point in the cloak—it was as like William's as two peas are like each other. What he could want, pacing at the back of my house and of his, puzzled me much. I——"