I was examining it for any stains that might be upon it—stains of the life-blood of Marie Bracq. But I could find none. No. They had been carefully removed, yet chemical analysis would, without doubt, reveal inevitable traces of the ghastly truth.
I had my back to the door, and was still holding the deadly weapon in my hand, scrutinising it closely, when I heard a slight movement behind me, and turning, confronted Phrida, standing erect and rigid, like a statue.
Her face was white as death, her thin hands clenched, her haunted eyes fixed upon me.
"Ah! I see!" she cried hoarsely. "You know—eh? You know!"
"No. I do not know, Phrida," was my deep reply, as I snatched her hand and held it in my own. "I only surmise that this knife was used on that fatal night, because of the unusual shape of its blade—because of the medical evidence that by such a knife Marie Bracq was killed."
She drew a deep breath.
"And you are taking it as evidence—against me!"
"Evidence against you, darling!" I echoed in reproach. "Do you think that I, the man who loves you, is endeavouring to convict you of a crime? No. Leave matters to me. I am your friend—not your enemy!"
A silence fell between us. She neither answered nor did she move for some moments. Then she said in a deep wistful tone:
"Ah! if I could only believe that you are!"