“What are you looking at?” he demanded at last, sitting on King's berth. His head swam. He had to wait a few seconds before he could step across to his own side.
“Only a knife,” said King. He was standing under the dim gas lamp that helped make the darkness more unbearable.
“Not that robber's knife? Did he drop it?”
“It's my knife,” said King.
“Strange time to stand staring at it, if it's yours! Didn't you ever see it before?”
King stowed the knife away in his bosom, and the major crossed to his own side.
“I'm thinking I'll know it again, at all events!” King answered, sitting down. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Within ten minutes Hyde was asleep, snoring prodigiously. Then King pulled out the knife again and studied it for half an hour. The blade was of bronze, with an edge hammered to the keenness of a razor. The hilt was of nearly pure gold, in the form of a woman dancing.
The whole thing was so exquisitely wrought that age had only softened the lines, without in the least impairing them. It looked like one of those Grecian toys with which Roman women of Nero's day stabbed their lovers. But that was not why he began to whistle very softly to himself.