“Why, that there isn’t any such knife.”
“Look here, Wilson,” said Blake, “Tom Driscoll’s right, for a thousand dollars—if I had it.”
Wilson’s blood warmed a little, and he wondered if he had been played upon by those strangers; it certainly had something of that look. But what could they gain by it? He threw out that suggestion. Tom replied:
“Gain? Oh, nothing that you would value, maybe. But they are strangers making their way in a new community. Is it nothing to them to appear as pets of an Oriental prince—at no expense? Is it nothing to them to be able to dazzle this poor little town with thousand-dollar rewards—at no expense? Wilson, there isn’t any such knife, or your scheme would have fetched it to light. Or if there is any such knife, they’ve got it yet. I believe, myself, that they’ve seen such a knife, for Angelo pictured it out with his pencil too swiftly and handily for him to have been inventing it, and of course I can’t swear that they’ve never had it; but this I’ll go bail for—if they had it when they came to this town, they’ve got it yet.”
Blake said—
“It looks mighty reasonable, the way Tom puts it; it most certainly does.”
Tom responded, turning to leave—
“You find the old woman, Blake, and if she can’t furnish the knife, go and search the twins!”
Tom sauntered away. Wilson felt a good deal depressed. He hardly knew what to think. He was loath to withdraw his faith from the twins, and was resolved not to do it on the present indecisive evidence; but—well, he would think, and then decide how to act.
“Blake, what do you think of this matter?”