"As he was falling," he continued, "I noticed the dagger handle protruding from the left side of his throat."
"Is this the one?"
It was Converse's sibilant whisper which now rudely broke into the recital. At the same time he thrust the silver blade close to the other's face.
Doctor Westbrook at first merely glanced at the weapon; but something about it evidently caught and held his attention, and an emotion vastly different from mere recognition overspread his countenance; it was astonishment, pure and simple.
"God bless my soul!" he gasped, in extreme amazement; "that is mine—my paper-knife—and I did not recognize it! What does this mean?" He sat with his eyes glued upon it, the centre of a dumfounded group. The Captain continued a moment to hold it forward, his gaze fixed inscrutably upon the physician's puzzled and bewildered countenance.
Presently Converse drew the weapon slowly back again, and replaced it upon the table.
"So that is yours?" the Coroner soberly asked.
"It is," replied the Doctor; "and I did not recognize it until this minute. How did it—why—" he began vaguely; but Merkel interrupted.
"Well," said he, with a wave of the hand that seemed to dispose of all complications, "it will be time enough for questions when you have finished."
"De Sanchez was falling," resumed the Doctor after a moment's reflection, "when I noticed the dagger handle. The body had scarcely touched the floor before I had stooped and wrenched the blade from the wound. It did not come easily; it required a severe tug to loosen it, and the withdrawal of the blade was followed by such a gush of blood that I knew some important artery must be severed. The man's death was practically instantaneous. After I had extracted the blade I had no time to render him any further service; I simply stood dumfounded until Jim—Mr. Lynden—grasped my arm and shook me."