"Look and touch, messire; after which I will tell you, if you desire, why this relic of love and sorrow is kept here among other souvenirs of the past."
D'Alvimar took up the knife, examined it closely, handled it, and said, suddenly replacing it on the cushion:
"I was mistaken, and I beg your pardon. It is not the weapon that I thought."
Lucilio, who was watching him attentively, fancied that he saw his mobile, delicate nostrils dilate with fear or surprise. But that slight facial contraction was noticeable in him on the slightest pretext, sometimes even without any pretext at all.
He resumed his game.
But Bois-Doré stopped him.
"Excuse me," he said; "but as you recognize that object it is my duty to question you; you may be able perhaps to throw some light upon a mysterious occurrence by which my life has been disturbed and made wretched for many years. Be kind enough to tell me, Monsieur de Villareal, if you know the device and initials engraved on this blade. Do you wish to look at it again?"
"It is useless, monsieur le marquis, I do not recognize the weapon; it never belonged to me."
"Do you feel any repugnance to making sure of that fact?"
"Repugnance? Why that question, messire?"