"A murder!" King's voice was more certain now.
"Yes. You saw the body carried out—or are you still so drunk you can't remember? It was Mrs. Darcy—the lady who owned this jewelry store, you know. Now pull yourself together. You've got to come with us and explain a little about this knife of yours. She was stabbed with that."
"With my knife—that paper cutter dagger I was giving as a present to—to my wife?" King's voice was sobering more now.
"That's the idea, Harry."
"But I brought that knife to Darcy to have him engrave it."
"That may be. It was used to cut the old lady, though, and laid back on Darcy's work-table. Come now—brace up, and tell us all you know about it."
"Oh, I—I can brace up all right. So the old lady's dead, is she? Killed—stabbed! Too bad! Many's the trinket I've bought of her for—for—well, some of the girls, you know," and he winked suggestively at the detectives. "Old lady Darcy's dead! Say, look here, boys!" he exclaimed with a sudden change of manner, as something seemed to penetrate to his sodden brain, "you—you don't for a minute think I did this—do you?" and he sat up straight for the first time.
"Never mind what we think," said Carroll. "We're not paid for telling it—like the reporters," and he grinned at Daley of the Times. "We want to get at the facts. Are you in condition to talk?"
"Not here!" interrupted Thong quickly, with a glance at the newspaper men, which they were quick to interpret. "Oh, it's all right, boys," went on the detective. "We'll let you in for anything that's going as soon as we can—you know that."
"Sure," agreed Daley. "But don't keep us waiting all day. The presses are like animals—they have to be fed, you know. First editions don't wait for gum-shoe men, even if they're of the first water. And I've got a city editor who has a temper like a bear with a sore nose in huckleberry time. So loosen up as soon as you can."