“Ah!” said he to Pendleton.  “The books!  Now we’ll have it.”

“They were all taken away by the people who bought them,” announced Sime, after a great flipping of ink spattered pages, “All except one.”

“And that one—­”

“It went by our boy.  It was sold to Mr. Cartwright the artist, and was sent to his studio up here in Fifth St. But there was another—­the last one that we had,” suddenly, “and now that I get thinking of it, I remember we had some trouble about it.  The man that bought it was a Dago.”

Pendleton darted a swift look at Ashton-Kirk, but the investigator’s expression never changed.  He looked steadily at the clock.

“When he asked for the bayonet,” proceeded Sime, “I knew we had one left, but I could not just lay my hands on it.  He paid for it and I said we’d send it to him.  He started to give me his address, and then changed his mind and said he’d come back again.”

“And he did?”

“Yes; the same afternoon.  I had found the thing by that time and he took it with him.”

“You don’t recall the address?”

To his employer’s evident mortification, Sime shook his head.

“Look in the books,” suggested Mr. Bernstine with confidence.  “Look in the books.”

“It ain’t there,” answered Sime.  “He said he’d come back, so I didn’t put it down.”

“Was it Christie Place?”

Sime pointed at Ashton-Kirk with his pencil.

“You’ve got it,” said he.  “That was it, sure enough.”

“And you think the man was an Italian?”

“Well, he talked and looked like one.  Rather well educated too, I think.”

Ashton-Kirk thanked the clerk, and the now beaming Mr. Bernstine, and with Pendleton left the place.

“Well,” said Pendleton, as they climbed into the car, “this about fixes the thing, doesn’t it?  The musician, Antonio Spatola, is the guilty man, beyond a doubt.”

The investigator settled back after giving the chauffeur his next stop.

“Beyond a doubt,” said he, “is rather an extreme expression.  The fact that the bayonet was purchased by an Italian who gave his address as Christie Place is not enough to convict Spatola.  All sorts of people live in that street, and there are perhaps other Italians among them.”

Pendleton called out to the chauffeur to stop.

“We’ll settle that at once,” said he.  “Spatola’s picture is in the papers.  We’ll ask the clerk if it is that of the man to whom he sold the weapon.”

But Ashton-Kirk restrained him.

“I thought of the published portraits while Sime was speaking,” said he.  “And I also thought that it was very fortunate that neither he nor his employer were readers of the newspapers.”

“How do you know that they are not?”

“If they had read to-day’s issues they would have at once connected the Italian who purchased the bayonet with the one who is said to have used it—­wouldn’t they; especially as both Italians lived on the same street?  Bernstine and Sime said nothing because they suspect nothing.  And, as I have said, this is fortunate, because, suspecting nothing, they will continue,” with a smile, “to say nothing.  If the police or reporters got this, they’d swoop down on the trail and perhaps spoil everything!”