It was still blood-stained, but as I took the deadly thing in my hand I
saw that its blade was beautifully damascened, a most elegant specimen
of a medieval arm. Yet surely none but an Italian would use such a
weapon, or would aim so truly as to penetrate the heart.
And yet the person struck down was a woman, and not a man!
A wound from a _misericordia_ always proves fatal, because the shape of
the blade cuts the flesh into little flaps which, on withdrawing the
knife, close up and prevent the blood from issuing forth. At the same
time, however, no power can make them heal again. A blow from such a
weapon is as surely fatal as the poisoned poignard of the Borgia or the
Medici.
I handed the stiletto back to the man without comment. My resolve was to
say as little as possible, for I had no desire to figure publicly at the
inquiry, and consequently negative all my own efforts to solve the
mystery of the Leithcourts and of Martin Woodroffe.
I returned to where the figure was lying so ghastly and motionless, and
looked again for the last time upon the dead face of the man who had
served me so well, and yet who had enticed me so nearly to my death.
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