truck me; not from anything in itself,
but because it was the only shop in the street with the shutters closed.

A bill was posted on the shutters, announcing that the place was to let.
The outgoing tradesman's name and business, announced in the customary
painted letters, ran thus: _James Wycomb, Cutler, etc._

For the first time, it occurred to me that we had forgotten an obstacle
in our way, when we distributed our photographs of the knife. We had
none of us remembered that a certain proportion of cutlers might be
placed, by circumstances, out of our reach--either by retiring from
business or by becoming bankrupt. I always carried a copy of the
photograph about me; and I thought to myself, "Here is the ghost of a
chance of tracing the knife to Mr. Deluc!"

The shop door was opened, after I had twice rung the bell, by an old
man, very dirty and very deaf. He said "You had better go upstairs, and
speak to Mr. Scorrier--top of the house."

I put my lips to the old fellow's ear-trumpet, and asked who Mr.
Scorrier was.

"Brother-in-law to Mr. Wycomb. Mr. Wycomb's dead. If you want to buy the
business apply to Mr. Scorrier."

Receiving that reply, I went upstairs, and found Mr. Scorrier engaged
in engraving a brass door-plate. He was a middle-aged man, with a
cadaverous face and dim eyes After the necessary apologies, I produced
my photograph.

"May I ask, sir, if you know anything of the inscription on that knife?"
I said.

He took his magnifying glass to look at it.

"This is curious," he remarked quietly. "I remember the queer
name--Zebedee. Yes, sir; I did the engraving, as far as it goes. I
wonder what prevented me from finishing it?"

The name of Zebedee, and the unfinished inscription on the knife, had
appeared in every English newspaper. He took the matter so coolly that
I was doubtful how to interpret his answer. Was it possible that he
had not seen the account of the murder? Or was he an accomplice with
prodigious powers of self-control?

"Excuse me," I said, "do you read the newspapers?"

"Never! My eyesight is failing me. I abstain from reading, in the
interests of my occupation."

"Have you not heard the name of Zebedee mentioned--particularly by
people who do read the newspapers?"

"Very likely; but I didn't attend to it. When the day's work is done, I
take my walk. Then I have my supper, my drop of grog, and my pipe. Then
I go to bed. A dull existence you think, I daresay! I had a miserable