"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?
