Probably, had he been a journalist, his curiosity would
have been greater than his incredulity. As it was, however, he
gazed at Tavernake, for a moment, blankly.
"Look here," he said, "this doesn't sound a very likely story of
yours, you know."
"I don't care whether it's likely or not," Tavernake answered
hotly; "it's true! The knife's somewhere in the road there--it
fell up against the railings."
They crossed the road together and searched. There were no signs
of the weapon. Tavernake peered over the railings.
"When my friend struck the other man and twisted him over," he
explained, "the knife seemed to fly up into the air; it might
even have reached the gardens."
His companion turned slowly away.
"Well, it's no use looking down there for it," he remarked. "We
might try the door, if you like."
They leaned their weight against it, hammered at the panels, and
waited. The door was fast closed and no reply came. The
musician shrugged his shoulders and prepared to depart, after one
more glance at Tavernake, half suspicious, half questioning.
"If you think it worth while," he said, "you had better fetch the
police, perhaps. If you take my advice, though, I think I should
go home and forget all about it."
He passed on, leaving Tavernake speechless. The idea that people
might not believe his story had never seriously occurred to him.
Yet all of a sudden he began to doubt it himself. He stepped
back into the road and looked up at the windows of the house
-- dark, uncurtained, revealing no sign of life or habitation.
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