“Horn-handled knives,” he muttered, “are not rare not uncommon things.”
“One don’t possess a knife for a matter of eight or nine years without being able to swear to it,” the other remarked dryly.
“Is there anything more?”
“There don’t need to be,” was the quiet reply. “You know that, sir. So do I. There don’t need to be any more evidence than mine to send Mr. Morrison to the gallows.”
“We will waive that point,” Laverick declared. “The jury sometimes are very hard to convince by circumstantial evidence alone. However, as I have said, let us waive that point. Your position is clear enough. You go to the inquest, you tell all you know, and you get nothing. You are a poor man, you have worked hard all your life. The chance has come in your way to do yourself a little good. Now take my advice. Don’t spoil it all by asking for anything ridiculous. It won’t do for you to come into a fortune a few days after this affair, especially if it ever comes out that the murdered man was in your place. I am here to act for Mr. Morrison. What is it that you want?”
“You are talking like a gent, sir,” the man said,—“like a sensible gent, too. I’d have to keep it quiet, of course, that I’d come into a bit of money,—just at present, at any rate. I could easy find an excuse for changing my job—perhaps get away from London altogether. I’ve got a few pounds saved and I’ve always wanted to open a banking account. A gent like you, perhaps, could put me in the way of doing it.”
“How much do you consider would be a satisfactory balance to commence with?” Laverick asked.
“I was thinking of a thousand pounds, sir.”
Laverick was thoughtful for a few moments.
“By the way, what is your name?” he inquired at last.