The light was dim, the place was a mere¹ rough wooden erection to keep old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.

 

Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt.

 

“Ah, c’est l’Anglais! Enter then. Let us see what you can make of this affair.”

 

Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.

 

“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.

 

I stepped across.

 

The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of complexion³, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was neatly⁴ dressed in a dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an expensive tailor, but not new. His face was terribly convulsed, and on his left side, just over the heart, the hilt of a dagger⁵ stood up, black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same dagger I had seen reposing⁶ in the glass jar the preceding morning!

 

“I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud. “Although we hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died of. He was stabbed to the heart, and death must have been pretty well instantaneous.”

 

“When was it done? Last night?”

 

Giraud shook his head.

 

“Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the man’s been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that dagger?”

 

“About ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

 

“Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long after that.”

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