A woman wearing a thick veil was called. I could not distinguish her features. In a few words she told of shooting a man at her window. She saw but one man, the one she shot. She was excused and hastily left the courtroom.

My landlord was called, and testified that I was the roommate of the dead burglar; that I was not in the room the night he was killed, and when I appeared the following night I had on a different, a new suit.

The officers testified that they arrested me in the room and that I had refused to make any statement. The prosecutor stood up.

“Officer, when you accused this defendant of being an accomplice of the dead man, did he deny it?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

The prosecutor looked wise, and sat down with a satisfied air⁠—as if I had been found guilty.

“Anything more?” asked the judge.

The prosecutor got up again. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, Your Honor. The dead man and this chap went out to rob that house. When the other fellow was shot, this chap tried to help him away, but he was too far gone. Then, what did he do?

“Your Honor,” he said, ominously pointing a finger at me, “he robbed his dead companion. The dead man’s pockets were turned inside out. But in his haste this man overlooked this⁠—this telltale blood-soaked receipt,” and he waved it about with great effect.

The judge frowned at me. The courtroom chair warmers craned necks in my direction.

“What about that new suit he has on?” continued the prosecutor. “He either bought it or stole it since the shooting. Why? Because the suit he wore that night had blood on it. Blood, Your Honor, blood,” he finished hoarsely.

I looked down at my shoes, wondering if the wizard was going to point out the dark spots on them that I hadn’t succeeded in scrubbing off entirely.