“Next to Antonio Spatola, who came most to Hume’s place while you were there?”

“The next most frequent caller,” returned the clerk, “was Mr. Allan Morris.”

Ashton-Kirk, glancing at Pendleton, saw him start.

“And who,” queried the coroner, “is Mr. Allan Morris?”

“At first I took him to be a customer,” replied Brolatsky.  “And perhaps he was.  He talked a great deal at times about engraved gems and would look at lists and works upon the subject.  But somehow I got the notion that that was not just what he came for.”

“What caused you to think that?” asked the coroner.

“His manner, partly, and then the fact that there seemed something between Mr. Hume and him—­something that I never understood.  Mr. Morris was another one that the boss used to make game of.  Not so much as he would Spatola, but still a good bit.  Mr. Morris always took it with a show of good temper; but underneath I could see that he too was sometimes furious.”

“About what did Hume deride him?”

“That’s what I never could quite make out.  It always seemed as though it was something that Mr. Morris wanted.  At first I got the notion that it was something that he wanted to buy and which Mr. Hume refused to sell; but later I changed my mind.  There seemed to be more to it than appeared on the top.  Both were very secretive about it.”

“I understand.”  Stillman’s face wore a puzzled expression; it was as though this latter development worried him.  But in a few moments he went on:  “Do you know where this man Morris is to be found?”

“Oh, yes.  He’s quite well known.  Has an office in the Blake Building, and is employed just now, so I’ve heard, by the Navy Department.”

“You have visited Christie Place to-day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the police have you look about?”

“Yes, sir.  And so far as I can see, nothing has been taken.”

“The weapon that Hume was killed with, now.  Do you know anything about it—­did it belong to the store?”

“The bayonet?  No, sir.”

“Are you sure of that?” earnestly.

“Positive.  It was my duty to keep a complete list of everything we had in stock.  We had other sorts of arms, but no such thing as a bayonet.”

There were a few more questions, but as they drew out nothing of interest, Stillman signified to Brolatsky that the interview was at an end.

“Now, you will go with Mr. Curran to police headquarters on the next floor,” said he, “and tell them what you have told me about this Antonio Spatola.”

Then he opened the door and stepped out.

“Curran,” they heard him say, importantly.

“I want you to—­” then the door closed, cutting the sentence short.

Pendleton gazed fixedly at Ashton-Kirk.

“I say,” said he, “I’m not up in this sort of thing at all.  I’ve been putting two and two together, and it’s led me into a deuce of a state.”