" "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Farewell. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. ’ ‘How do I know that?’ demanded Jack. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. ‘She wants me to marry her. It is useless to talk.
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