“This is yours, I believe,” he said softly.
The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he might secure the advantage of a better light. He examined the blade near the hilt and handed the weapon back to T. X.
“That is my knife,” he said.
T. X. smiled.
“You understand, of course, that I saw 'Hussein Effendi of Durazzo' inscribed in Arabic near the hilt.”
The Turk inclined his head.
“With this weapon,” T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, “a murder was committed in this town.”
There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotion whatever.
“It is the will of God,” he said calmly; “these things happen even in a great city like London.”
“It was your knife,” suggested T. X.