“There is a handle,” he went on, “which is perhaps the most ingenious thing of all.  You touch a spring here, and behold!”

He pressed down two tiny supports which opened upon hinges about four inches from the top of the handle.  There was now a complete hilt.

“With this little weapon,” he explained, “the point is so sharpened and the steel so wonderful that it is not necessary to stab.  It has the perfection of a surgical instrument.  You have only to lean it against a certain point in a man’s anatomy, lunge ever so little and the whole thing is done.  Come here, Mr. Ledsam, and I will show you the exact spot.”

Francis made no movement.  His eyes were fixed upon the weapon.

“If I had only known!” he muttered.

“My dear fellow, if you had,” the other protested soothingly, “you know perfectly well that it would not have made the slightest difference.  Perhaps that little break in your voice would not have come quite so naturally, the little sweep of your arm towards me, the man whom a moment’s thoughtlessness might sweep into Eternity, would have been a little stiffer, but what matter?  You would still have done your best and you would probably still have succeeded.  You don’t care about trifling with Eternity, eh?  Very well, I will find the place for you.”

Hilditch’s fingers strayed along his shirt-front until he found a certain spot.  Then he leaned the dagger against it, his forefinger and second finger pressed against the hilt.  His eyes were fixed upon his guest’s.  He seemed genuinely interested.  Francis, glancing away for a moment, was suddenly conscious of a new horror.  The woman had leaned a little forward in her easy-chair until she had attained almost a crouching position.  Her eyes seemed to be measuring the distance from where she sat to that quivering thread of steel.

“You see, Ledsam,” his host went on, “that point driven now at that angle would go clean through the vital part of my heart.  And it needs no force, either—­just the slow pressure of these two fingers.  What did you say, Margaret?” he enquired, breaking off abruptly.

The woman was seated upon the very edge of her chair, her eyes rivetted upon the dagger.  There was no change in her face, not a tremor in her tone.

“I said nothing,” she replied.  “I did not speak at all.  I was just watching.”

Hilditch turned back to his guest.

“These two fingers,” he repeated, “and a flick of the wrist —­very little more than would be necessary for a thirty yard putt right across the green.”

Francis had recovered himself, had found his bearings to a certain extent.

“I am sorry that you have told me this, Mr. Hilditch,” he said, a little stiffly.

“Why?” was the puzzled reply.  “I thought you would be interested.”

“I am interested to this extent,” Francis declared, “I shall accept no more cases such as yours unless I am convinced of my client’s innocence.  I look upon your confession to me as being in the worst possible taste, and I regret very much my efforts on your behalf.”