He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger.
“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”
She gave a little cry.
“Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then—she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that—blood?”
“Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about it’s being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?”
“Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. “This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.”
“I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.”
“Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Ayres.”
“What?”
“Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.”