“Small fear I’ll touch it, sir. It’s one of them old fightin’ irons.”
“A weapon, by heaven!” exclaimed Lord Ludlow.
“Has it blood on it?”
“All sticky dried, sir.”
We were beside the quaking man-servant in a jiffy or two, staring curiously where lay a small battle-axe, with an inconsiderable curve of blade. It was a weapon of uncommon slightness. Both metal and wood were dark with the same viscous fluid, the handle being quite slobbered with it.
“From the armoury!” cried our host. “The foul devil’s actually been inside the house! Don’t touch it!”
“That weapon was on the wall at a quarter before eight,” said Lord Ludlow. (Ah, I knew why he could say that!) “I was passing through to the library for my glasses.” (There, to be sure, the old rascal prevaricated.)
“You don’t say!”
“This looks like a serious crime,” remarked his Lordship.
“Serious crime!” Pendleton snorted. “Ludlow, you surprise me. I thought it was child’s play.”