quite unique—a curio, I should think, by the look of it.”

 

He bent down, surveying the handle attentively, and I heard him give a grunt of

satisfaction. Then, very gingerly, he pressed his hands down below the hilt and

drew the blade out from the wound. Still carrying it so as not to touch the

handle, he placed it in a wide china mug which adorned the mantelpiece.

 

“Yes,” he said, nodding at it. “Quite a work of art. There can’t be many of them

about.”

 

It was indeed a beautiful object. A narrow, tapering blade, and a hilt of

elaborately intertwined metals of curious and careful workmanship.

 

He touched the blade gingerly with his finger, testing its sharpness, and made

an appreciative grimace.

 

“Lord, what an edge,” he exclaimed. “A child could drive that into a man—as easy

as cutting butter. A dangerous sort of toy to have about.”

 

“May I examine the body properly now?” I asked.

 

He nodded.

 

“Go ahead.”