The shop door was opened, after I had twice rung the bell, by an old man, very dirty and very deaf. He said “You had better go upstairs, and speak to Mr. Scorrier—top of the house.”
I put my lips to the old fellow’s ear-trumpet, and asked who Mr. Scorrier was.
“Brother-in-law to Mr. Wycomb. Mr. Wycomb’s dead. If you want to buy the business apply to Mr. Scorrier.”
Receiving that reply, I went upstairs, and found Mr. Scorrier engaged in engraving a brass door-plate. He was a middle-aged man, with a cadaverous face and dim eyes After the necessary apologies, I produced my photograph.
“May I ask, sir, if you know anything of the inscription on that knife?” I said.
He took his magnifying glass to look at it.
“This is curious,” he remarked quietly. “I remember the queer name—Zebedee. Yes,
