“Man, I wasn’t looking for that. I was looking for something with which to hang you. And I found this, and those. This is a towel. There’s blood on it. See! The marks of bloody fingers. You wiped your hands on it when, last night, you came from Lawrence’s room.” “That is what you make of it. I see.” “Those are the pyjamas which you were wearing. There are stains on them. See here, on the front of the jacket; on the breeches, too.” “What is the deduction which you draw from that?” “I don’t know. I did know. But now I don’t.” His tone was one of intense dejection. He looked towards the bed. I considered for a moment. Then I spoke. “You’re quite right, Hume. The cloak is Miss Moore’s.” He turned round quickly. “Do you want to hang her now instead of Philip? Or do you want to hang them both?” “You talk too much of hanging. I mean you and I to understand each other before you leave this room; and we shan’t get there by blinking facts. I say that the cloak’s Miss Moore’s. You perceive that it’s caked with blood.” “I see.” “I believe that blood to be Edwin Lawrence’s. The proof is easy; you have only to subject it to a microscopical examination you will know. The stain on my pyjamas came off her cloak. That on the towel was where she wiped her hands, not where I wiped mine. The water in which she washed them I threw into the road. It was bright red. Not only were her hands reeking wet, there were smears upon her face as well.” “Ferguson!” “Those are the facts. I’ve made it a rule of my life never to dodge a fact which I don’t like; I hit at it. And it’s because I hit at those facts that I know they don’t mean she killed him; I know she didn’t.” “How do you know?” I laughed. “Because I know her; perhaps you don’t.” “I’ve known her the better part of my life.” “And I only since last night, when she came through my window with shining hands.” “But how can you know she didn’t, unless you know who did? Did you?” I laughed again. “I did not. Lawrence sharped me; I suspected it last night, now I’m sure; but I shouldn’t have killed him merely because he was too clever; at least, not like that. You’re a poor judge of character if you suppose I should.” “I care nothing for you, or for your character. It’s of her I’m thinking. She might have done it in a fit of temporary insanity.” “She might; but she didn’t.” “Then what was the meaning of her conduct in his room just now?” “You’re a mental pathologist; you should know better than I.” “It’s because I’m a mental pathologist that I--fear. Symonds suspects. I shouldn’t be surprised if he arrests her within four and twenty hours. He’ll hang her if he finds this cloak.” “Oh no, he won’t. Nor, if Symonds is the idiot you suppose--he may be, since you’re a judge of idiots--will she remain long under arrest. I shall free her.” Hume had been pacing up and down like an unquiet spirit. Now he stopped to snarl at me like an angry wolf.