More reporters came, and Daley fraternized with them, the newspaper men aside from the police and Jim Holiday, a detective from Prosecutor Bardon’s office, being the only people admitted to the shop, when the clerks had been sent home.

The morgue keeper’s men lifted the fast stiffening body and were about to place it in the wicker carrier when Carroll, who was watching them rather idly, uttered an exclamation.

“What’s up?” asked Thong quickly.  He had been strolling about the shop, and had come to a stop near Darcy’s work table—­a sort of bench against the wall, and behind one of the showcases.  The bench was fitted with a lathe, and on it were parts of watches, like the dead specimens preserved in alcohol in a doctor’s office.  “What’s up, Bill?”

“Look!” exclaimed Carroll, pointing.

The men from the morgue had the body raised in the air.  And then, in the gleam from the electric lights there was revealed underneath and in the left side of the dead woman a clean slit through her light dress—­a slit the edges of which were stained with blood.

“Another wound!” exclaimed Daley, his newspaper instincts quickly aroused by this addition of evidence of mystery.  “This is getting interesting!”

“It’s a cut—­a deep one, too,” murmured Carroll, as he drew nearer to look.  “Wonder what did it?”

“Shouldn’t wonder but it was done with this!” and Thong held out, on the palm of his large hand, a slender dagger, on the otherwise bright blade of which were some dark stains.

“Where’d you get it?” demanded Carroll.

“Over on the watch repair table.”

Darcy gasped.

“Is that your dagger?” snapped Carroll at the jewelry worker.

“It isn’t a dagger—­it’s a paper-cutter—­a magazine knife.”

“Well, whatever it is, who owns it?” The words were as crisp as the steel of the stained blade.

Darcy stared at the keen knife, and then at the dead woman.

“Who owns it?” and the question snapped like a whip.

“I don’t!  It was left here by—­”

There was a commotion at the side door, which had been opened by Mulligan in order that the men might carry out the body of Mrs. Darcy.  There was a shuffling of feet, and a rather thick and unsteady voice asked: 

“Whash matter here?  Place on fire?  Looks like devil t’pay!  Let me in.  Shawl right, offisher.  Got a right t’ come in, I have!  I got something here.  ’Svaluable, too!  Don’t want that all burned—­spoil shings have ’em burned.

“’Lo, Darcy!” went on a young man, who walked unsteadily into the jewelry store.  “Wheresh tha’ paper cutter I left for you t’ ’grave Pearl’s name on?  Got take it home now.  Got take her home some—­someshing—­square myself.  Been out al’night—­you know how ’tish!  Take wifely home li’l preshent—­you know how ’tish.  Gotta please wifely when you—­hic—­been out al’ night.  Wheresh my gold-mounted paper cutter, Darcy?”