The poor man spoke honestly. I was ashamed of having doubted him. I returned to the subject of the knife.
“Do you know where it was purchased, and by whom?” I asked.
“My memory is not so good as it was,” he said; “but I have got something by me that helps it.”
He took from a cupboard a dirty old scrapbook. Strips of paper, with writing on them, were pasted on the pages, as well as I could see. He turned to an index, or table of contents, and opened a page. Something like a flash of life showed itself on his dismal face.
“Ha! now I remember,” he said. “The knife was bought of my late brother-in-law, in the shop downstairs. It all comes back to me, sir. A person in a state of frenzy burst into this very room, and snatched the knife away from me, when I was only half way through the inscription!”
I felt that I was now close on discovery. “May I see what it is that has assisted your memory?” I asked.
“Oh yes. You must know, sir, I live by engraving inscriptions and addresses, and I paste in this book the manuscript instructions which I receive, with marks of my own on the margin. For one thing, they serve as a reference to new customers. And for another thing, they do certainly help my memory.”
He turned the book toward me, and pointed to a slip of paper which occupied the lower half of a page.
I read the complete inscription, intended for the knife that killed Zebedee, and written as follows:
“To John Zebedee. From Priscilla Thurlby.”