“For something that will throw light upon the murder of your friend, Mr. Edwin Lawrence. As that is an object for which you will, no doubt, be willing to do anything which lies in your power, you will be glad to hear that we have come upon what looks like a very important piece of evidence. Whose cloak is this, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Cloak? What cloak? Oh, that! That’s my cousin’s.”
“Indeed. What is your cousin’s name?”
“Mary—Miss Mary Ferguson. She was here a few days ago, and, as her nose bled very badly, she left her cloak behind.”
My wits were wool-gathering. It was the first invention I could think of.
“And were these marks upon the cloak made by your cousin’s nose bleeding?”
“Exactly.”
“She must have almost bled to death. Did a blood-vessel break?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”