"Why, sir, it was the day after we left Malta—I remember that Mr. Solomon was breaking out a case of champagne and I was helping him with it. Yes, that's it. I asked him for a knife—I'd left mine in my bunk—and he passed me that one to cut away the straw around the case. Just let me hold it a minute." Harcourt passed over the knife and the German folded his great hand around it, nodding. "Yes, I could swear to it, Mr. Harcourt. I hope there's nothing wrong, sir?"
"Nothing, Baumgardner. You have seen the knife at no other time, I suppose?"
"No, sir. I only remembered it because it had that little hitch at the end of the handle, but it's the same one."
"Very well. That will do."
No one said anything for a moment. Hammer's eyes went to Solomon, and he surprised a peculiar look in the other's face—a peculiar look which he could not fathom. It was as if John Solomon's faith in human nature had suddenly received a shock, and if it was acting, then it was cleverly done.
A second later the third Arab entered, replied to Harcourt's question, which Solomon translated with a curt negative, and passed on. The fourth Arab, however, glanced at the knife, and before a word had been uttered his eyes lit up. Harcourt caught the gleam and checked Solomon.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Solomon. Hammer, I think you'd better ask him, to avoid any suspicion against Solomon's question; not that we suspect you, Solomon, but under the circumstances it might be better."
"Quite so, sir," rejoined the supercargo humbly. "I'm werry sorry, o' course, sir."
Hammer put the question in faltering Arabic, and the man nodded at once.
"Yes, effendi, I have seen the knife. Has it a small nick near the end of the blade?"