"Have we?" I said vacantly.
"You know you have. What is that in your hand?"
I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time, but as he spoke I looked at my hand.
In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too, was also discoloured.
"What does this mean?" cried Voltaire.
"I do not know. I am dazed—bewildered."
"But that is Kaffar's knife. I know he had it this very evening. Where is Kaffar now?"
"Is it true?" I remember saying. "Have we been together?" "That's his knife, at any rate. And what is this?"
Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it.
"Kaffar's," he said. "Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?"
I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in Arabic characters the words "Aba Wady Kaffar." It had every appearance of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood.