the room through thickly pebbled spectacles.

"Dr. Lepardo!" cried Simons. "I am glad to see you, sir."

"Eh? Who's that?" said Harborne, looking out from the inner office,
notebook in hand. "You should not have let anybody in, doctor."

"Excuse me, Mr. Harborne," replied Simons civilly, "but I have taken the
liberty of asking Doctor Emmanuel Lepardo, whom I chanced to know was in
London, to give an opinion upon the rather odd weapon with which this
crime was perpetrated. He is one of the first authorities in Europe, and
I thought you might welcome his assistance at this early stage of your
inquiry."

"Oh," said the detective thoughtfully, "that's different. Thank you,
sir," nodding to the new-comer. "I'm afraid your name isn't known to me,
but if you can give us a tip or two I shall be grateful. I wish
Inspector Sheffield were here. These cases are fair nightmares to me.
And now it's got to murder, life won't be worth living at the Yard if we
don't make an arrest."

"Yes, yes," said Dr. Lepardo, peering about him, speaking in a most
peculiar, rumbling tone, and with a strong accent. "I would not have
missed such a chance. Where is this dagger? I have just returned from
the Izamal temples of Yucatan. I have brought some fine specimens to
Europe. Obsidian knives. Sacrificial. Beautiful."

He shuffled jerkily into the private office, seemed to grasp its every
detail in one comprehensive, peering glance, and pounced upon the dagger
with a hoarse exclamation. The Scotland Yard man watched him with
curiosity, and Julius Rohscheimer, in the open door, followed his
movements with a newly awakened interest.

"True Damascus!" he muttered, running a long finger up the blade. "Hilt,
Persian--not Kultwork--Persian. Yes. Can I pull it out? Yes? Damascened
to within three inches. Very early."

He turned to the detective, dagger in hand.

"This is a Turkish yataghan."

No one appeared to be greatly enlightened.

"When I say a Turkish yataghan I mean that from a broken Damascus
sword-blade and a Persian dagger handle, a yataghan of the Turkish
pattern has been made. There are stones incrusted in the hilt but the
blade is worth more. Very rare. This was made in Persia for the Turkish
market."

"One of Severac Bablon's Arabs," burst in Rohscheimer hoarsely, "has
done this."

"Ah, yes. So? I read of him in Paris. He is in league with the chief of
the Paris detective. Him? So. I meet him once."

"Eh?" cried Harborne, "Se