“I was armed, sir. I took down one of the old Indian daggers from the hall.”
“Where is it now?” inquired the inspector, quickly, for at such a moment the admission that he had had a knife in his possession was sufficient to arouse a strong suspicion.
“I hung it up again, sir, before going out to call the doctor,” he replied quite calmly.
“Show me which it was,” I said; and he accompanied me out to the hall and pointed to a long thin knife which formed part of a trophy of antique Indian weapons.
In an instant I saw that such a knife had undoubtedly inflicted the wound in the dead man’s breast.
“So you armed yourself with this?” I remarked, taking down the knife with affected carelessness, and examining it.
“Yes, doctor. It was the first thing that came to hand. It’s sharp, for I cut myself once when cleaning it.”
I tried its edge, and found it almost as keen as a razor. It was about ten inches long, and not more than half an inch broad, with a hilt of carved ivory, yellow with age, and inlaid with fine lines of silver. Certainly a very dangerous weapon. The sheath was of purple velvet, very worn and faded.
I walked back to where the detectives were standing, and examined the blade beneath the light. It was bright, and had apparently been recently cleaned. It might have been cleaned and oil smeared upon it after the commission of the crime. Yet as far as I could discern with the naked eye there was no evidence that it had recently been used.
It was the man’s curious apprehensive glance that had first aroused my suspicion, and the admissions that he had opened the back door, and that he had been armed, both increased my mistrust. The detectives, too, were interested in the weapon, but were soon satisfied that, although a dangerous knife, it bore no stain of blood.