knife. And now, as the man held out the bottle to fill all round, Riderhood stood up, leaned over the table to look closer at the knife, and stared from it to him.
“What’s the matter?” asked the man.
“Why, I know that knife!” said Riderhood.
“Yes, I dare say you do.”
He motioned to him to hold up his glass, and filled it. Riderhood emptied it to the last drop and began again.
“That there knife—”
“Stop,” said the man, composedly. “I was going to drink to your daughter. Your health, Miss Riderhood.”
“That knife was the knife of a seaman named George Radfoot.”
“It was.”
“That seaman was well beknown to me.”
“He was.”
“What’s come to him?”
“Death has come to him. Death came to him in an ugly shape. He looked,” said the man, “very horrible after it.”
“Arter what?” said Riderhood, with a frowning stare.
“After he was killed.”
“Killed? Who killed him?”