"What does it contain?" I asked.
Inspector Gatton walked across to the chair and threw the bag open. First he took out several lumps of wet coal.
"To weight it, of course," he said.
Then one by one he withdrew from the clammy interior a series of ragged garments, the garments of a tramp. A pair of heavy boots there were, a pair of patched trousers and an old shabby coat, a greasy cap, and finally a threadbare red muffler!
Gatton looked hard at me.
"He will have to break his obstinate silence now," he said. "Failing our discovery of new clews pointing in another direction, this is hanging evidence!"
"It is maddening!" I cried. "Can nothing be done, Gatton? Is there no possible line of inquiry hitherto neglected which might lead to the discovery of the truth? For whatever your own ideas may be, personally I am certain that Coverly is innocent."
Gatton replaced the sodden garments one by one in the bag, frowning as he did so, and:
"It occurred to me this morning," he replied, "that there is one inquiry which in justice to the suspected man and in order to round off the investigation, should be instituted. I'm afraid Coverly will have a bad time in the Coroner's court, but it is even possible that something might be done before the inquest. Now—"
He looked at me quizzically, and: