The Best Horror Stories of Arthur Conan Doyle by Arthur Doyle Read Free Book Online Page B

speak English when I speak slow.”
    â€œYou wanted me to go out, I understand?”
    â€œYes, sir. I wanted very much that you should see my wife.”
    â€œI could come in the morning, but I have an engagement which prevents me from seeing your wife tonight.”
    The Turk’s answer was a singular one. He pulled the string which closed the mouth of the chamois-leather bag, and poured a flood of gold on to the table.
    â€œThere are one hundred pounds there,” said he, “and I promise you that it will not take you an hour. I have a cab ready at the door.”
    Douglas Stone glanced at his watch. An hour would not make it too late to visit Lady Sannox. He had been there later. And the fee was an extraordinarily high one. He had been pressed by his creditors lately and he could not afford to let such a chance pass. He would go.
    â€œWhat is the case?” he asked.
    â€œOh, it is so sad a one! So sad a one! You have not, perhaps heard of the daggers of the Almohades?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œAh, they are Eastern daggers of a great age and of a singular shape, with the hilt like what you call a stirrup. I am a curiosity dealer, you understand, and that is why I have come to England from Smyrna, but next week I go back once more. Many things I brought with me, and I have a few things left, but among them, to my sorrow, is one of these daggers.”
    â€œYou will remember that I have an appointment, sir,” said the surgeon, with some irritation; “pray confine yourself to the necessary details.”
    â€œYou will see that it is necessary. Today my wife fell down in a faint in the room in which I keep my wares, and she cut her lower lip upon this cursed dagger of Almohades.”
    â€œI see,” said Douglas Stone, rising. ‘And you wish me to dress the wound?”
    â€œNo, no, it is worse than that.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    â€œThese daggers are poisoned.”
    â€œPoisoned!”
    â€œYes, and there is no man, East or West, who can tell now what is the poison or what the cure. But all that is known I know, for my father was in this trade before me, and we have had much to do with these poisoned weapons.”
    â€œWhat are the symptoms?”
    â€œDeep sleep, and death in thirty hours.”
    â€œAnd you say there is no cure. Why then should you pay me this considerable fee?”
    â€œNo drug can cure, but the knife may.”
    â€œAnd how?”
    â€œThe poison is slow of absorption. It remains for hours in the wound.”
    â€œWashing, then, might cleanse it?”
    â€œNo more than in a snake bite. It is too subtle and too deadly.”
    â€œExcision of the wound, then?”
    â€œThat is it. If it be on the finger, take the finger off. So said my father always. But think of where this wound is, and that it is my wife. It is dreadful!”
    But familiarity with such grim matters may take the finer edge from a man’s sympathy. To Douglas Stone this was already an interesting case, and he brushed aside as irrelevant the feeble objections of the husband.
    â€œIt appears to be that or nothing,” said he brusquely. “It is better to lose a lip than a life.”
    â€œAh, yes, I know that you are right. Well, well, it is kismet, and it must be faced. I have the cab, and you will come with me and do this thing.”
    Douglas Stone took his case of bistouries from a drawer, and placed it with a roll of bandage and a compress of lint in his pocket. He must waste no more time if he were to see Lady Sannox.
    â€œI am ready,” said he, pulling on his overcoat. “Will you take a glass of wine before you go out into this cold air?”
    His visitor shrank away, with a protesting hand upraised.
    â€œYou forget that I am a Mussulman, and a true follower of the Prophet,” said he. “But tell me what is the bottle of green glass which you have placed in your pocket?”
    â€œIt is