“Purple—isn’t it?” he remarked, setting it down again. “As I said, it’s strange. Because the overcoat has got a label sewn on the inside with your address written in marking ink.” Mrs Verloc leaned over the counter with a low exclamation. “That’s my brother’s, then.” “Where’s your brother? Can I see him?” asked the Chief Inspector briskly. Mrs Verloc leaned a little more over the counter. “No. He isn’t here. I wrote that label myself.” “Where’s your brother now?” “He’s been away living with—a friend—in the country.” “The overcoat comes from the country. And what’s the name of the friend?” “Michaelis,” confessed Mrs Verloc in an awed whisper. The Chief Inspector let out a whistle. His eyes snapped. “Just so. Capital. And your brother now, what’s he like—a sturdy, darkish chap—eh?” “Oh no,” exclaimed Mrs Verloc fervently. “That must be the thief. Stevie’s slight and fair.” “Good,” said the Chief Inspector in an approving tone. And while Mrs Verloc, wavering between alarm and wonder, stared at him, he sought for information. Why have the address sewn like this inside the coat? And he heard that the mangled remains he had inspected that morning with extreme repugnance were those of a youth, nervous, absent-minded, peculiar, and also that the woman who was speaking to him had had the charge of that boy since he was a baby. “Easily excitable?” he suggested. “Oh yes. He is. But how did he come to lose his coat—” Chief Inspector Heat suddenly pulled out a pink newspaper he had bought less than half-an-hour ago. He was interested in horses. Forced by his calling into an attitude of doubt and suspicion towards his fellow-citizens, Chief Inspector Heat relieved the instinct of credulity implanted in the human breast by putting unbounded faith in the sporting prophets of that particular evening publication. Dropping the extra special on to the counter, he plunged his hand again into his pocket, and pulling out the piece of cloth fate had presented him with out of a heap of things that seemed to have been collected in shambles and rag shops, he offered it to Mrs Verloc for inspection. “I suppose you recognise this?” She took it mechanically in both her hands. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger as she looked. “Yes,” she whispered, then raised her head, and staggered backward a little. “Whatever for is it torn out like this?” The Chief Inspector snatched across the counter the cloth out of her hands, and she sat heavily on the chair. He thought: identification’s perfect. And in that moment he had a glimpse into the whole amazing truth. Verloc was the “other man.” “Mrs Verloc,” he said, “it strikes me that you know more of this bomb affair than even you yourself are aware of.”