"Put it that way if you like," returned Dobbins cheerfully. "There was a knife. That's the long and short of it, don't you see? A boy's pocket knife. It sawed the big moving cable. Snap! Bang! Away went the house. Whose knife? Aha! Dear me—who can tell? Sly, hey—Frank, boy? We ain't going to tell. No need of it. Artful dodgers—ho! ho! ho! Take the five dollars."
Frank gave a vivid start. He was partly enlightened now. He had mislaid his knife near the house that had been anchored on the hill side. Somebody had found it and had cut the cable with it.
"What you are getting at, then," said Frank, "is that a knife cut the rope loose?"
"Ah, just that."
"And my knife?"
"Oh, yes, it was your knife, Frank—no doubt about that at all."
"How do you know it was my knife?" asked Frank.
"Because it had your name on it. Of course I didn't see the knife used, but
Judge Roseberry found it the next morning right under the windlass."
"Who?" fairly shouted Frank.
"Judge Roseberry. The knife fitted to the cut. Judge Roseberry came to me with it. 'Dobbins,' says he to me, 'business is business. I have made a discovery. The person who smashed your house is Frank Jordan, and I can prove it.' Then he told me the rest."