“And you found it, good Britton, and will give it to me. ’Twas an old keepsake from a friend. You will give it to me, Andrew Britton?”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith in his discordant manner. “You know the mind is free when safety is doubly secured.”
“The knife—the knife!” cried the stranger, earnestly. “My name is—is—”
“On the handle,” added Britton, “which makes it all the more valuable. You say it was a keepsake. It shall be a keepsake still. I will keep it for my own sake. I would not barter it for its worth in gold.”
“Perhaps you have not got it.”
“Do not please yourself with such a supposition, I will show it to you.”
Britton walked to an old press which stood in an obscure and dark corner of the room, and then returned with a large knife in his hand, the blade of which opened and remained fast by touching a spring.
“Do you know that?” he said, holding it to the eyes of his visitor. The man groaned.
“Give it to me. Oh, give it to me, Britton,” he said.
“No,” said the smith. “You have taught me a lesson, I shall write a confession and wrap it round this knife with ample directions to the nearest justice, in case anything should happen to me. Do you understand, my friend?”