“Where have you seen this dagger before, young lady?” he asked, kindly enough.
“Oh, don’t ask me!” she gasped breathlessly, her eyes turned on Sullivan. “It’s—it’s too terrible!”
“Tell him,” I advised, leaning over to her. “It will be found out later, anyhow.”
“Ask him,” she said, nodding toward Sullivan. The detective unwrapped the small box Alison had brought, disclosing the trampled necklace and broken chain. With clumsy fingers he spread it on the table and fitted into place the bit of chain. There could be no doubt that it belonged there.
“Where did you find that chain?” Sullivan asked hoarsely, looking for the first time at Alison.
“On the floor, near the murdered man’s berth.”
“Now, Mr. Sullivan,” said the detective civilly, “I believe you can tell us, in the light of these two exhibits, who really did murder Simon Harrington.”
Sullivan looked again at the dagger, a sharp little bit of steel with a Florentine handle. Then he picked up the locket and pressed a hidden spring under one of the cameos. Inside, very neatly engraved, was the name and a date.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his face ghastly, “it is of no use for me to attempt a denial. The dagger and necklace belonged to my sister, Alice Curtis!”