"There were a lot of old medicine-bottles in that room The corks will do as buttons for these rapiers. Bring the light"
Ruth cried out in protest Martin did not want to go into that condemned cell again, where to him the air was like a physical touch of evil. But in comparatively few minutes he might be in a worse place — across the passage — and locked into these rooms at that
He fought it to the back of his mind, while he and Ricky stumbled again over the heap of swords and daggers. More of them clanged and rolled as the light moved. Martin put down his cup-hilt ready to hand.
"Big corks or little corks for the ends of the swords?" demanded Ricky. "There'd be more sport in little ones. If the point—" He paused, and Martin did not reply. They were both looking down at what had been revealed among the scattered swords.
It was an Italian dagger of the sixteenth century, of plain steel for blade, crosspiece, and handle, in a metal sheath of engraved design. It was not so large as we usually imagine such weapons. The blade, shaken almost out of a loose sheath, was so stained with blood that splashes smeared the crosspiece, and somebody evidently had tried to wipe off the lower part of the handle. It was fresh blood.
"Don't touch it!" said Ricky. "They tell you never to…"
"Got to touch it" Martin, far less bothered by this than by the evil old room, lifted it by the top of the dagger and the end of the sheath. He inspected it "Antique," he said. "But—"
"But what?"
The one cutting-edge has been ground to an edge like a razor. The point's just as sharp." He raised his voice. "Both the lawyer and the doctor bad better come in here. Keep Ruth behind you; don't let her look."
There was a long silence, followed by a rush.