or dirks, or whatever it may be called—­here, I’ll draw it for you.”  He took a sheet of paper and made a rapid sketch.  “There it is—­a broad and murderous blade, with edges like a razor for sharpness.  The devices engraved on it are the ciphers or names of its long line of possessors—­I had Luigi’s name added in Roman letters myself with our coat of arms, as you see.  You notice what a curious handle the thing has.  It is solid ivory, polished like a mirror, and is four or five inches long—­round, and as thick as a large man’s wrist, with the end squared off flat, for your thumb to rest on; for you grasp it, with your thumb resting on the blunt end—­so—­and lift it along and strike downward.  The Gaikowar showed us how the thing was done when he gave it to Luigi, and before that night was ended, Luigi had used the knife, and the Gaikowar was a man short by reason of it.  The sheath is magnificently ornamented with gems of great value.  You will find a sheath more worth looking at than the knife itself, of course.”

Tom said to himself: 

“It’s lucky I came here.  I would have sold that knife for a song; I supposed the jewels were glass.”

“But go on; don’t stop,” said Wilson.  “Our curiosity is up now, to hear about the homicide.  Tell us about that.”

“Well, briefly, the knife was to blame for that, all around.  A native servant slipped into our room in the palace in the night, to kill us and steal the knife on account of the fortune encrusted on its sheath, without a doubt.  Luigi had it under his pillow; we were in bed together.  There was a dim night-light burning.  I was asleep, but Luigi was awake, and he thought he detected a vague form nearing the bed.  He slipped the knife out of the sheath and was ready and unembarrassed by hampering bedclothes, for the weather was hot and we hadn’t any.  Suddenly that native rose at the bedside, and bent over me with his right hand lifted and a dirk in it aimed at my throat; but Luigi grabbed his wrist, pulled him downward, and drove his own knife into the man’s neck.  That is the whole story.”

Wilson and Tom drew deep breaths, and after some general chat about the tragedy, Pudd’nhead said, taking Tom’s hand: 

“Now, Tom, I’ve never had a look at your palms, as it happens; perhaps you’ve got some little questionable privacies that need—­hel-lo!”

Tom had snatched away his hand, and was looking a good deal confused.

“Why, he’s blushing!” said Luigi.

Tom darted an ugly look at him, and said sharply: 

“Well, if I am, it ain’t because I’m a murderer!” Luigi’s dark face flushed, but before he could speak or move, Tom added with anxious haste:  “Oh, I beg a thousand pardons.  I didn’t mean that; it was out before I thought, and I’m very, very sorry—­you must forgive me!”