"What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr.
Godfrey?" he questioned, at last.
"A sharp instrument, with two prongs. My theory is that the prongs
are hollow, like a hypodermic needle, and leave a drop or two of
poison at the bottom of the wound. You see a vein has been cut."
"Yes," Hughes assented. "It would scarcely be possible to pierce the
hand here without striking a vein. One of the prongs would be sure to
do it."
"That's the reason there are two of them, I fancy."
"But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act
so quickly?" Hughes inquired.
Godfrey looked at him strangely.
"You yourself mentioned Florence a moment ago," he said. "You meant,
I suppose, that such a poison did, at one time, exist there?"
"Something of the sort, perhaps," agreed Hughes. "The words were
purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running
through my head."
"Well, the poison that existed in Florence five centuries ago, exists
here to-day. There's the proof of it," and Godfrey pointed to the
body.
Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror.
"But what sort of devilish instrument is it?" he cried, his nerves
giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly.
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