you want it talked out or not.”
“That will answer,” said Luigi. “Write it.”
Wilson wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Luigi,
who read it to himself and said to Tom:
“Unfold your slip and read it, Mr. Driscoll.”
Tom said:
“‘IT WAS PROPHESIED THAT I WOULD KILL A MAN. IT CAME TRUE
BEFORE THE YEAR WAS OUT.'”
Tom added, “Great Scott!”
Luigi handed Wilson’s paper to Tom, and said:
“Now read this one.”
Tom read:
“‘YOU HAVE KILLED SOMEONE, BUT WHETHER MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD,
I DO NOT MAKE OUT.'”
“Caesar’s ghost!” commented Tom, with astonishment.
“It beats anything that was ever heard of! Why, a man’s own hand is
his deadliest enemy! Just think of that–a man’s own hand keeps
a record of the deepest and fatalest secrets of his life, and is
treacherously ready to expose himself to any black-magic stranger
that comes along. But what do you let a person look at your hand for,
with that awful thing printed on it?”
“Oh,” said Luigi, reposefully, “I don’t mind it. I killed the man
for good reasons, and I don’t regret it.”
“What were the reasons?”
“Well, he needed killing.”
“I’ll tell you why he did it, since he won’t say himself,” said Angelo,
warmly. “He did it to save my life, that’s what he did it for.
So it was a noble act, and not a thing to be hid in the dark.”
“So it was, so it was,” said Wilson. “To do such a thing to save a
brother’s life is a great and fine action.”
“Now come,” said Luigi, “it is very pleasant to hear you say
these things, but for unselfishness, or heroism, or magnanimity,
the circumstances won’t stand scrutiny. You overlook one detail;
suppose I hadn’t saved Angelo’s life, what would have become of mine?
If I had let the man kill him, wouldn’t he have killed me, too?
I saved my own life, you see.”
“Yes, that is your way of talking,” said Angelo, “but I know you–
I don’t believe you thought of yourself at all. I keep that weapon
yet that Luigi killed the man with, and I’ll show it to you sometime.
That incident makes it interesting, and it had a history before it
came into Luigi’s hands which adds to its interest. It was given to
Luigi by a great Indian prince, the Gaikowar of Baroda, and it had been
in his family two or three centuries. It killed a good many disagreeable
people who troubled the hearthstone at one time or another. It isn’t much
too look at, except it isn’t shaped like other knives, 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,