"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' butter 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