“It was sent me yesterday,” said Rankin, “by a countryman of yours, Doctor Tokareff, whom I met in Switzerland last year. I did him rather a service — lugged him out of a crevasse where he had lingered long enough to sacrifice two of his fingers to frost-bite — and he sent me this, as a thank-offering, I suppose. I brought it down to show you, Hubert… I thought Arthur might like to have a look at it, too. Our famous archaeologist, you know. Let me get it. I left my overcoat in the porch out there.”

“Vassily, get Mr. Rankin’s coat,” said Sir Hubert.

“I hope you don’t expect me to look at it,” said Mrs. Wilde. “I’m going to dress.”

She did not move, however, but only put her hand through her husband’s arm. He regarded her with a kind of gentle whimsicality which Nigel thought very charming.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Arthur?” she said. “I haven’t read one of your books because you will butter your pages with native horrors.”

“Marjorie’s reaction to knives or pointed tools of any sort is not an uncommon one,” said Wilde. “It probably conceals a rather interesting repression.”

“Do you mean that privately she’s a blood-thirster?” asked Angela, and everyone laughed.

“Well, we shall see,” said Rankin, taking his coat from Vassily and producing a long carved silver case from one of the pockets.

Nigel, who was standing beside his cousin, heard a curiously thin sibilant noise close behind him. He turned his head involuntarily. At his elbow stood the old servant transfixed, his eyes riveted on the sheath in Rankin’s hands. Instinctively Nigel glanced at Doctor Tokareff. He too, from the further side of the cocktail tray, was looking, quite impassively, at the new dagger.

“By Jove!” murmured Sir Hubert quietly.

Rankin, gripping the silver sheath, slowly drew out an excessively thin tapering blade. He held the dagger aloft. The blade, like a stalactite, gleamed blue in the firelight.