"It is very curious; something is there, and, by George, it is a knife!"
It was a knife — the knife which we had seen in the vision, the dream, the nightmare, call it what you will — the something which had seemed so real. There was no mistaking it, tarnished though it was — the long, slender blade which we had seen the man draw from the leather sheath. Stuck to it by what was afterwards shown to be coagulated blood was an envelope — the envelope which we had seen the fellow take from his pocket to wipe off the crimson stain. It had adhered to the blade. When the knife fell the envelope fell too.
"At least," I murmured as I stared at this grim relic, "this is a singular coincidence."
The blood upon the blade had dried. It required but little to cause the envelope to fall away. As a matter of fact, while I was still holding the weapon in my hand it fell to the floor. I picked it up. It was addressed in a woman's hand, "Francis Joynes, Esq., Fairleigh, Streatham."
I at once recognised the name as that of a well-known owner of racehorses and so-called "gentleman rider."
•••••
Not the least singular part of all that singular story was that the letter inside that envelope, which was afterwards opened and read by the proper authorities, was from Mr. Joynes's wife. It was a loving, tender letter, from a wife who was an invalid abroad to a husband whom she supposed was thinking of her at home.
