“It is blood,” he gasped. “But you are unhurt?”
“Yes.” Robert Hale’s voice was not quite steady. “You did not reach me.”
“Then where did this blood come from?” demanded John Hale. “It’s—it’s not fresh,” and there was a growing horror in the look he cast at his companions.
Ferguson, who had followed every act and word with rapt attention, picked up the bamboo cane casing which John Hale had tossed to the floor when he drew the concealed weapon and lunged at his brother. Stepping up to the dazed man, the detective took the sword from his unresisting hand and examined it with interest.
“Austin Hale was killed by a rapier-like thrust,” he stated slowly. “The autopsy proved that the wound was greater in depth than in length. Is this your cane, Mr. Hale?”
John Hale wet his dry lips. “It is,” he muttered, and looked dumbly at his silent, motionless companions.
“You carry it always?” asked Ferguson with dogged persistence.
“When I go out, yes.”
“Who knows that this ordinary-appearing bamboo cane conceals a rapier?”
“My brother.” John Hale avoided looking at them, his eyes were still on the sword cane.