“You don’t mean to tell a honest man⁠—” he was recommencing with his empty glass in his hand, when his eye became fascinated by the stranger’s outer coat. He leaned across the table to see it nearer, touched the sleeve, turned the cuff to look at the sleeve-lining (the man, in his perfect composure, offering not the least objection), and exclaimed, “It’s my belief as this here coat was George Radfoot’s too!”

“You are right. He wore it the last time you ever saw him, and the last time you ever will see him⁠—in this world.”

“It’s my belief you mean to tell me to my face you killed him!” exclaimed Riderhood; but, nevertheless, allowing his glass to be filled again.

The man only answered with another shrug, and showed no symptom of confusion.

“Wish I may die if I know what to be up to with this chap!” said Riderhood, after staring at him, and tossing his last glassful down his throat. “Let’s know what to make of you. Say something plain.”