“Oh, it is so sad a one! So sad a one! You have not, perhaps, heard of the daggers of the Almohades?”
“Never.”
“Ah, they are Eastern daggers of a great age and of a singular shape, with the hilt like what you call a stirrup. I am a curiosity dealer, you understand, and that is why I have come to England from Smyrna, but next week I go back once more. Many things I brought with me, and I have a few things left, but among them, to my sorrow, is one of these daggers.”
“You will remember that I have an appointment, sir,” said the surgeon, with some irritation. “Pray confine yourself to the necessary details.”
“You will see that it is necessary. To-day my wife fell down in a faint in the room in which I keep my wares, and she cut her lower lip upon this cursed dagger of Almohades.”
“I see,” said Douglas Stone, rising. “And you wish me to dress the wound?”
“No, no, it is worse than that.”
“What then?”
“These daggers are poisoned.”
“Poisoned!”