"Well, well!" Verelst astoundedly exclaimed. "But, here, hold on. The papers say he had a return check."
Jones flicked his ashes. "I have one or two myself. Probably you have. Even otherwise return checks tell no tales, or rather no dates."
"I never thought of that."
"Think of it now, then."
"Yes, but confound it, there is the stiletto."
"As you say, there it is and I wish it were here. It is mine."
Verelst adjusted his glasses. "What are you talking about?"
"The war," Jones answered. "What else? In my shop last evening, Lennox was drawing his will. In gathering up the sheets, the knife must have got among them and, without knowing it, he carried it off. This morning I missed it. The loss affected me profoundly. It is an old friend."
"You don't tell me."
"Don't I? I'll go so far as to lay you another basket of pippins that the police can't produce another like it. On the blade is inscribed Penetrabo—which is an endearing device."