“What you need, Pelt, is a warm bath and a good night's rest. You are pretty lucky not to have been killed; and after this we'd better not let you go around alone.”
His suggestion of a bath was a good one, and they followed me to my room and bade me good night. After I had turned on the water in the tub I glanced at myself in the wall mirror. I was a sorry object, and when I saw my face, I could not blame Carter for smiling. There was a great streak of dirt across my cheek, and a large bruise over one eye; my hair was a tangled mass. When I turned away from the glass, I remembered my hat was still on the roof of the church.
I looked myself over pretty well after I undressed and decided that, save for several bruises, I was unharmed, True, I was very sore, but the warm water would aid that. After staying in the water for a long while, I rubbed myself well with alcohol, and crept between the sheets of the bed. I gave a sigh of contentment as my tired body felt the cool linen. For a while I tried to puzzle out all that had taken place—tried, only to give it up as sleep crept down upon me. Then with a sigh I turned over and knew no more.
It was long after ten when I went down to the dining room the next morning. As I took my place at the breakfast table, the housekeeper handed me a note saying that Carter had left it. It simply announced that both he and Ranville had gone to Warren's funeral, and they thought they would let me sleep. Breakfast over, I strolled out on the lawn and for a while amused myself by playing ball with the dog. Tiring of this after a while, I went up on the veranda to read a magazine.
I had been reading perhaps about ten minutes when I was hailed by a voice from the walk and, glancing down, I saw the heavy, thick-set figure of the chief of police. He came up the steps and dropped into a near-by chair, wiping his face with his handkerchief as if he was warm. Under one arm he had a small package which he was handling very carefully. For a while we talked in a general way, until I began to wonder what it might be that had caused him to come to the house.
At length, after taking a pipe from his pocket and which he took some time in filling, he said:
“Well, Mr. Pelt, I understand that you are with one of the best detectives in the country.”
I agreed to this, and he went on:
“I have something here might interest you.”
He took the package from under his arm and slowly but very carefully unwrapped it. There seemed to be far more paper used in wrapping than was necessary, but at length he reached the object he was after. Giving it one rather strange look, he handed it to me without a word. It was a dagger of a style and workmanship which I had never seen before. The blade was very long and extremely thin, and it came to a decidedly sharp point—a point which not only was sharp, but also very clean; the steel of which it was made was glazed a dark green, and the handle had several figures carved upon it.