He took a step nearer Darcy--a threatening step it would seem, from the fact that the jewelry worker drew back as if in alarm.

"No, I don't know anything," said Darcy in a low voice.

"Then what's this talk about the statue--not wanting it in the house--_whose_ house?"

"The house I hope to live in with my wife--Miss Amy Mason," answered Darcy, and he spoke in calm contrast to his former excitement, "We are going to be married in the fall," he went on. "I had asked Mrs. Darcy to set that statue aside for me. Miss Mason admired it, and I planned to buy it. We had the place all picked out where it would stand.

But--now--"

He did not finish, but a shudder seemed to shake his frame.

"It would be a rather grewsome object to have around after it had killed the old lady," murmured the reporter. "But are you sure it did, Doc?"

"Pretty sure, yes. I never make a statement, though, until after the autopsy. No telling what that may develop. I'll get at it right away.

I guess you remember that Murray case," he went on, to no one in particular. "There they all thought the man was murdered, when, as a matter of fact he had been taken with a heart spell, fell downstairs, and a knife he had in his hand pierced his heart."

"That wasn't your case, Doc," observed Carroll.

"No, it was before my time. But I remember it. That's why I'm saying nothing until I've made an examination. Better 'phone the morgue keeper," he went on, "and have them come for the body."

"Have you--have you got to take her away?" faltered Darcy.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but it wouldn't do--here," and the doctor motioned to the glittering array of cut gla.s.s and plate. "You won't keep the store open?" he inquired.

"No. I'll put a notice in the door now," and Darcy wrote out one which a clerk affixed to the front door for him.

"Well, that's all I can do now," Dr. Warren said, after his very perfunctory examination. "The rest will have to be at the morgue. Got a place where I can wash my hands?" he asked.

Darcy indicated a little closet near his work bench. Dr. Warren soon resumed his coat, accepted a cigarette from Daley, slipped into his still damp rain-garment and was soon throbbing down the street in his automobile, having announced that he was going to breakfast and would perform the autopsy immediately afterward.

Soon a black wagon rattled up to the jewelry store, bringing fresh acquisitions to the crowd, which persisted in staying in spite of the rain, which had now changed from a drizzle to a more p.r.o.nounced downpour.

More reporters came, and Daley fraternized with them, the newspaper men aside from the police and Jim Holiday, a detective from Prosecutor Bardon's office, being the only people admitted to the shop, when the clerks had been sent home.

The morgue keeper's men lifted the fast stiffening body and were about to place it in the wicker carrier when Carroll, who was watching them rather idly, uttered an exclamation.

"What's up?" asked Thong quickly. He had been strolling about the shop, and had come to a stop near Darcy's work table--a sort of bench against the wall, and behind one of the showcases. The bench was fitted with a lathe, and on it were parts of watches, like the dead specimens preserved in alcohol in a doctor's office. "What's up, Bill?"

"Look!" exclaimed Carroll, pointing.

The men from the morgue had the body raised in the air. And then, in the gleam from the electric lights there was revealed underneath and in the left side of the dead woman a clean slit through her light dress--a slit the edges of which were stained with blood.

"Another wound!" exclaimed Daley, his newspaper instincts quickly aroused by this addition of evidence of mystery. "This is getting interesting!"

"It's a cut--a deep one, too," murmured Carroll, as he drew nearer to look. "Wonder what did it?"

"Shouldn't wonder but it was done with this!" and Thong held out, on the palm of his large hand, a slender dagger, on the otherwise bright blade of which were some dark stains.

"Where'd you get it?" demanded Carroll.

"Over on the watch repair table."

Darcy gasped.

"Is that your dagger?" snapped Carroll at the jewelry worker.

"It isn't a dagger--it's a paper-cutter--a magazine knife."

"Well, whatever it is, who owns it?" The words were as crisp as the steel of the stained blade.

Darcy stared at the keen knife, and then at the dead woman.

"Who owns it?" and the question snapped like a whip.

"I don't! It was left here by--"

There was a commotion at the side door, which had been opened by Mulligan in order that the men might carry out the body of Mrs. Darcy.

There was a shuffling of feet, and a rather thick and unsteady voice asked:

"Whash matter here? Place on fire? Looks like devil t'pay! Let me in. Shawl right, offisher. Got a right t' come in, I have! I got something here. 'Svaluable, too! Don't want that all burned--spoil shings have 'em burned.

"'Lo, Darcy!" went on a young man, who walked unsteadily into the jewelry store. "Wheresh tha' paper cutter I left for you t' 'grave Pearl's name on? Got take it home now. Got take her home some--someshing--square myself. Been out al'night--you know how 'tish! Take wifely home li'l preshent--you know how 'tish. Gotta please wifely when you--hic--been out al' night. Wheresh my gold-mounted paper cutter, Darcy?"

"Harry King, and stewed to the gills again!" murmured Pete Daley.

"Wow! he has some bun on!"

"Wheresh my paper cutter, Darcy?" went on King, smiling in a fashion meant to be merry, but which was fixed and gla.s.sy as to his eyes.

"Wheresh my li'l preshent for wifely? Got her name all 'graved on it nice an' pretty? Thash what'll square wifely when I been out--hic--al'night. Wheresh my paper cutter, Darcy, ol' man?"

Silently the jewelry worker pointed to the stained dagger--it was really that, though designed for a paper cutter. The detective held it out, and the red spots on it seemed to show brighter in the gleam of the electric lights.

"Is that your knife, Harry King?" demanded Thong.

"Sure thash mine! Bought it in li'l ole N' York lash week. Didn't have no name on it--brought it here for my ole fren', Darcy, t'

engrave. Put wifely's name on--her namesh Pearl--P-e-a-r-l!" and he spelled it out laboriously and thickly.

"My wife--she likes them things. Me--I got no use for 'em. Gimme oyster fork--or clam, for that matter--an' a bread n' b.u.t.ter knife--'n I'm all right. But gotta square wife somehow. Take her home nice preshent. Thatsh me--sure thash mine!" and carefully trying to balance himself, he reached forward as though to take the stained dagger from the hand of the detective.

"You got Pearl's name 'graved on it, Darcy, ole man?" asked King, thickly, licking his hot and feverish lips.

"No," answered the jewelry worker, hollowly.

Then Harry King, seemingly for the first time, became aware that all was not well in the place he had entered. He turned and saw the body of the murdered woman as the men from the morgue Started out with it.

He started back as though some one had struck him a blow.

"Is she--is she dead?" he gasped. "Dead--Mrs. Darcy?"

"Looks that way," said Carroll in cool tones. "You'd better come in here and sit down a while, Harry," he went on, and he led the unsteady young man to the rear room, while the men from the morgue carried out the lifeless body.