"This is my justification. Do you note the color of
the woman's hair whose portrait hangs with its face turned to the
wall in your room? Is it like or unlike that of the strand you held
in your hand a few moments ago; a strand taken as I swear, hair by
hair from the comb of the poor creature who occupied the room above.
But that is not all," he continued as Mr. Blake fell a trifle aback;
"just observe the dress in which this woman is painted; blue silk you
see, dark and rich; a wide collar cunningly executed, you can almost
trace the pattern; a brooch; then the roses in the hand, do you see?
Now come with me upstairs."
Too much startled to speak, Mr. Blake, haughty aristocrat as he was,
turned like a little child and followed the detective who with an
assured step and unembarassed mien led the way into the deserted room
above.
"You accuse me of insulting you, when I express disbelief of your
assertion that there was no connection between you and the girl
Emily," said Mr. Gryce as he lit the gas and unlocked that famous
bureau drawer. "Will you do so any longer in face of these?" And
drawing off the towel that lay uppermost, he revealed the neatly
folded dress, wide collar, brooch and faded roses that lay beneath.
"Mrs. Daniels assures us these articles belonged to the sewing-woman
Emily; were brought here by her.
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