"Imagine yourselves that it was in a time of one of those outcries against Jewish people which come like stupid fever as though nations, ignorantly, have eaten too much in strong sun. They needed to blame some one and, just then, in blaming us they could blame as they would."
"H'm!—Do either of you know what happened at the Tombs this afternoon?"
"The papers say that Mr. Denny has tried to kill himself."
"Well, and very obliging of them. But, for a desperate man, he gave himself rather queer wounds—scratches in the shoulder and arm. The guard ran for the doctor and seems to be running yet. But where was our suicide really cut to the bone? On the insides of his hands!"
He had produced his sensation.
"The guard was one of the new Italian contingent. And the blow aimed by an Italian, then, at the prisoner's heart and caught by his arm, was given with a triangular knife!"
They were all three on their feet.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Deutch, for my opening gallery play with you. I didn't know the tragedy I was running into. And our friend Herrick, here, and the excellent Wheeler both tried to hoodwink me to-night when I asked them straight questions. You're going to tell me the truth, I know, for now I'm telling it to you. We got hold of your husband at the Pennsylvania Station. Our intelligent police tried to frighten him with the stab of Denny's triangular prick and they succeeded in putting him clean out of the game with aphasia—sensory aphasia. Word blindness—speech or writing—heavens, what a gag! But don't be alarmed; fortunately it goes with a perfectly clear mind and it's only temporary. Only—time's everything! Well, it gave me the cue to come up here and dig for some three-cornered mystery, blackmailing if procurable, in Deutch's life. Every District-Attorney his own detective! Yes—when it's this District-Attorney and this crime—Amen! Amen!—What is it?"
"Oh, sir, the Italian!"
"Yes?"