I knew Dr. Hughes, of course, returned his nod, and followed him and Godfrey into the ante-room.  But I had not yet sufficiently recovered to do more than sit and stare at him as he knelt beside the body and assured himself that life had fled.  Then I heard Godfrey telling him all we knew, while Hughes listened with incredulous face.

“But it’s absurd, you know!” he protested, when Godfrey had finished.  “Things like this don’t happen here in New York.  In Florence, perhaps, in the Middle Ages; but not here in the twentieth century!”

“I can scarcely believe my own senses,” Godfrey agreed.  “But I saw the Frenchman lying here this afternoon; and now here’s Vantine.”

“On the same spot?”

“As nearly as I can tell.”

“And killed in the same way?”

“Killed in precisely the same way.”

Hughes turned back to the body again, and looked long and earnestly at the injured hand.

“What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr. Godfrey?” he questioned, at last.

“A sharp instrument, with two prongs.  My theory is that the prongs are hollow, like a hypodermic needle, and leave a drop or two of poison at the bottom of the wound.  You see a vein has been cut.”

“Yes,” Hughes assented.  “It would scarcely be possible to pierce the hand here without striking a vein.  One of the prongs would be sure to do it.”

“That’s the reason there are two of them, I fancy.”

“But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act so quickly?” Hughes inquired.

Godfrey looked at him strangely.

“You yourself mentioned Florence a moment ago,” he said.  “You meant, I suppose, that such a poison did, at one time, exist there?”

“Something of the sort, perhaps,” agreed Hughes.  “The words were purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running through my head.”

“Well, the poison that existed in Florence five centuries ago, exists here to-day.  There’s the proof of it,” and Godfrey pointed to the body.

Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror.

“But what sort of devilish instrument is it?” he cried, his nerves giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly.  “Above all, who wields it?”

He stared about the room, as though half-expecting to see some mighty and remorseless arm poised, ready to strike.  Then he shook himself together.

“I beg pardon,” he said, mopping the sweat from his face; “but I’m not used to this sort of thing; and I’m frightened—­yes, I really believe I’m frightened,” and he laughed, a little unsteady laugh.

“So am I,” said Godfrey; “so is Lester; so is everybody.  You needn’t be ashamed of it.”

“What frightens me,” went on Hughes, evidently studying his own symptoms, “is the mystery of it—­there is something supernatural about it—­something I can’t understand.  How does it happen that each of the victims is struck on the right hand?  Why not the left hand?  Why the hand at all?”