an old
Florentine _misericordia_, a long thin, triangular blade, a quarter of
an inch wide at its greatest width, tapering to a needle-point, with a
hilt of yellow ivory, the most deadly and fatal of all the daggers and
poignards of the Middle Ages. The blade being sharp on three angles
produced a wound that caused internal hemorrhage and which never
healed--hence the name given to it by the Florentines.

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. In
the latter incident there was a deep mystery. He had relented at the
last moment, just in time to save me from my secret enemies.

Could it be that my enemies were his? Had he fallen a victim by the same
hand that had attempted so ingeniously to kill me?

Why had Leithcourt gone so regularly up to Rannoch Wood? Was it in
order to meet the man who was to be entrapped and killed? What was
Olinto Santini doing so far from London, if he had not come expressly to
meet someone in secret?

As I glanced down at the cold, inanimate countenance upon which mystery
was written, I became seized by regret. He had been a faithful and
honest servant, and even though he had enticed me to that fatal house in
Lambeth, yet I recollected his words, how he had done so under
compulsion. I remembered, too, how he had implored me not to prejudge
him before I became aware of the full facts