life, sir, when I was young. A bare subsistence, and a little rest,
before the last perfect rest in the grave--that is all I want. The world
has gone by me long ago. So much the better."

The poor man spoke honestly. I was ashamed of having doubted him. I
returned to the subject of the knife.

"Do you know where it was purchased, and by whom?" I asked.

"My memory is not so good as it was," he said; "but I have got something
by me that helps it."

He took from a cupboard a dirty old scrapbook. Strips of paper, with
writing on them, were pasted on the pages, as well as I could see. He
turned to an index, or table of contents, and opened a page. Something
like a flash of life showed itself on his dismal face.

"Ha! now I remember," he said. "The knife was bought of my late
brother-in-law, in the shop downstairs. It all comes back to me, sir. A
person in a state of frenzy burst into this very room, and snatched the
knife away from me, when I was only half way through the inscription!"

I felt that I was now close on discovery. "May I see what it is that has
assisted your memory?" I asked.

"Oh yes. You must know, sir, I live by engraving inscriptions and
addresses, and I paste in this book the manuscript instructions which I
receive, with marks of my own on the margin. For one thing, they
serve as a reference to new customers. And for another thing, they do
certainly help my memory."

He turned the book toward me, and pointed to a slip of paper which
occupied the lower half of a page.

I read the complete inscription, intended for the knife that killed
Zebedee, and written as follows:

"To John Zebedee. From Priscilla Thurlby."

VII.

I DECLARE that it is impossible for me to describe what I felt when
Priscilla's name confronted me like a written confession of guilt. How
long it was before I recovered myself in some degree, I cannot say. The
only thing I can clearly call to mind is, that I frightened the poor
engraver.

My first desire was to get possession of the manuscript inscription.
I told him I was a policeman, and summoned him to assist me in the
discovery of a crime. I even offered him money. He drew back from my
hand. "You shall have it for nothing," he said, "if you will only go
away and never come here again." He tried to cut it out of the page--but
his trembling hands were helpless. I cut it out myself, and attempted
to thank him. He wouldn't hear me. "Go away!" he said, "I don't like the
loo