"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." VII.
I DECLARE that it is impossible for me to describe what I felt when Priscilla's name confronted me like a written confession of guilt.