“Sir Charles,” I cried, “look at the dagger! Don’t you recognize it?” He adjusted his pince-nez, and went across to the body.
“Good God, Bill! It’s the Venetian dagger off the curio table.”
“What’s that?” Anthony’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Your property?”
“Been in the family two hundred years. An ancestor of mine brought it from Italy.”
“Where was it kept?”
“On a table in the drawing-room!”
“I don’t like it,” murmured Anthony. “Why was it brought up here?”
“I have it,” cried Sir Charles. “It’s burglars after all. Poor Prescott heard them and....”
“It’s no good theorizing, Sir Charles ... without facts to go on! When the police come and deal with points that I can’t possibly touch yet ... I may be able to help you.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than Jack’s voice was heard outside. “This way, doctor ... in here.”