"
Francis staggered back and gripped at the mantelpiece. His eyes
were filled with horror. Very slowly, and with the air of one
engaged upon some interesting task, Oliver Hilditch had removed
the blood-stained sheath of cotton wool from around the thin
blade of a marvellous-looking stiletto, on which was also a long
stain of encrusted blood.
"There is a handle," he went on, "which is perhaps the most
ingenious thing of all. You touch a spring here, and behold!"
He pressed down two tiny supports which opened upon hinges about
four inches from the top of the handle. There was now a complete
hilt.
"With this little weapon," he explained, "the point is so
sharpened and the steel so wonderful that it is not necessary to
stab. It has the perfection of a surgical instrument. You have
only to lean it against a certain point in a man's anatomy, lunge
ever so little and the whole thing is done. Come here, Mr.
Ledsam, and I will show you the exact spot."
Francis made no movement. His eyes were fixed upon the weapon.
"If I had only known!" he muttered.
"My dear fellow, if you had," the other protested soothingly,
"you know perfectly well that it would not have made the
slightest difference. Perhaps that little break in your voice
would not have come quite so naturally, the little sweep of your
arm towards me, the man whom a moment's thoughtlessness might
sweep into Eternity, would have been a little stiffer, but what
matter? You would still have done your best and you would
probably still have succeeded.
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