Ah! here I see an inscription," said Chauvelin, holding the sword close
to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel.

"The name of the original owner. I myself bought them--when I travelled
in Italy--from one of his descendants."

"Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci," said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian names
quite slowly.

"The greatest blackguard that ever trod this earth. You, no doubt,
Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder,
nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo... neither the deadly drug in the
cup nor the poisoned dagger."

He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banter
which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawly
manner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his,
Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced the
sword--which he had been examining--upon the table.

He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning back
against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, was
idly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which the
ex-ambassador had so suddenly put down.

"Well, Monsieur," quoth Sir Percy after a slight pause, and meeting
with a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent's fixed gaze. "Are you
satisfied with the weapons? Which of the two shall be yours, and which
mine?"

"Of a truth, Sir Percy..." murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating.

"Nay, Monsieur," interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonhomie, "I know
what you would say... of a truth, there is no choice between this pair
of perfect twins: one is as exquisite as the other.... And yet you must
take one and I the other... this or that, whichever you prefer....
You shall take it home with you to-night and practise thrusting at a
haystack or at a bobbin, as you please... The sword is yours to command
until you have used it against my unworthy person... yours until you
bring it out four days hence--on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, when
the cathedral bells chime the evening Angelus; then you shall cross
it against its faithless twin.... There, Monsieur--they are of equal
length... of equal strength and temper... a perfect pair... Yet I pray
you choose."

He took up both the swords in his hands and carefully balancing them by
the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held them out towards
the Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he from his
towering height was loo