Captain Riggs was nonplussed for a second at this, and he hesitated. Then he looked at Buckrow, who was trying to get past Harris into the passage again.
"Buckrow! Wait a minute, my man! Where's your knife?"
"My knife?" said Buckrow in amazement. "My knife?"
"Yes, the knife you had when you were here first. Where is it now? It ain't in your belt."
Buckrow reached to his hip, and consternation pulled his face into varying expressions as he found his sheath empty. But we knew his astonishment was simulated.
"Damme if it bain't gone! Some of them cussed chinks must 'ave a tooken it. It was—"
"That's all very well," said Riggs. "The redheaded one is our man."
"Where's that bleedin' knife?" said Buckrow, fumbling at his belt.
"Never mind that," put in Riggs. "That's your knife there in the red fellow's sheath, and this is settled until it is turned over to the judge. Put this man Petrak, or whatever his name is, in irons, Mr. Harris; and you, Buckrow, you know more than you'll tell. Mind what you're about or you'll be clapped in irons, too, along with your mate here. Have the body wrapped with some firebars, Mr. Harris, to be buried in the morning. That's all. Double irons, Mr. Harris."
"I never done for him, and that gent knows it," wailed Petrak, as Harris put his hand on his shoulder to take him away. To my amazement, Petrak pointed his finger at me.