It was a very fine piece of polished hardware, this knife--and belonged to a carving-set given to them at their wedding. On the day following her demonstration with it, and before he had announced her sentence of nightly imprisonment, she had bound the knife, fork, and steel together with a rosette of ribbons, and with the aid of a step-ladder hung them high on the dining-room wall; then she burned the ladder, and when Beverton arrived in the evening showed him the exhibit. "There," she said, with a determined little frown, "is the only deadly weapon in the house, and it is out of my reach. Let it stay there; I hate the sight of it, and could never bear to have it on the table again; but if it be up there--out of the way--where I can't help seeing it, perhaps--perhaps--it will--" The rest was convulsive sobbing. Beverton comforted her, and meaning to lock her up at bedtime, suggested putting the harrowing reminder out of sight in some safe place; but she would not consent, even though she approved of the bolt on her door. "I might find that knife in my sleep, no matter where you hid it," she said. "Lock me up, instead, and then, if I pick the lock, I cannot reach the knife." So there it remained, and as they used their dining-room for a sitting-room and as she had resolutely placed the beribboned and glittering display squarely opposite her favorite seat, she had full opportunity of benefiting by any deterrent influence it possessed. As to its possessing such an influence, she could only surmise and hope; however, she confessed that it fascinated her. "I can't keep my eyes off it," she explained one evening, while they sat reading in the dining-room. "For the dozenth time to-night I've found my gaze creep up to that knife. Why is it? And the hateful thing makes me sleepy--just looking at it." "Well," responded Beverton, grimly, "if it could only keep you asleep, it would be all right, wouldn't it?" Then, observing that the speech had pained her, he arose, kissed the flushed cheek, and added gently, "Don't look at it, girl; face the other way and get interested in your book. What are you reading?" "It's so hard to get interested," she said, wearily, "in what you don't understand. It's a sea novel." She held up the book and turned the leaves. "What does topgallant clewlines mean, Tom?--fore-and-aft, clew-up and clew-down? And here's a word, 'mizzen.' And clew-garnet--what does that mean? It's a strange language." "Blest if I know. Pick the story out. Never mind the descriptions."