“Who had that knife?” Don again demanded. “If you saw it in the club-room, you must have seen it in the possession of some one. Who had it?”
“Why, it—it’s Renwood’s knife.”
“How do you know? Did you see it in his possession?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, for I took it from him and examined it before all the other fellows. I told him I’d like to have a knife like that, and then I passed it back to him, and he took it. All the fellows saw me give it back to him,” Leon concluded, impressively.
“That settles it!” grated the doctor’s son, his eyes flashing and his face betraying triumphant satisfaction. “I’m glad they all saw this knife in that fellow’s possession and that he claimed it as his own. Even though I cannot understand his motive for doing the dirty job in the dressing-room, there is no longer a doubt in my mind but he did it.”
Bentley drew a long breath, looked wonderfully relieved, and a bit of color returned to his sallow cheeks. Had Don Scott been watching his visitor closely, he must have wondered somewhat at his manner.
“But how that knife came into your possession is more than I can understand,” said Leon, picking up his half-smoked cigarette and looking at Don askance.
Then Scott told him the whole story of his adventure in the dressing-room the night before, and the other listened attentively, but with his eyes downcast, at times gnawing at his lips in a nervous manner.