in spite of the
rain, which had now changed from a drizzle to a more pronounced
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 wa