The man was a born
fighter. He could take, his punishment, but only on his feet.
Again he cried in anguish:
"No! It was no dream, but a foul murder. And they blame me!"
CHAPTER II
DAVID HUME'S STORY
Brett closed the book with a snap.
"What good purpose can it serve at this time to reopen the miserable
story?" he asked.
Curiously enough, Hume paid no heed to the question. His lips quivered,
his nostrils twitched, and his eyes shot strange gleams. He caught the
back of his chair with both hands in a grasp that tried to squeeze the
tough oak.
"What else have you written there?" he said, and Brett could not help but
admire his forced composure.
"Nothing of any material importance. You were arrested, after an interval
of some days, as the result of a coroner's warrant. You explained that you
had a vivid dream, in which you saw your cousin stabbed by a stranger whom
you did not know, whose face even you never saw. Sir Alan was undoubtedly
murdered. The dagger-like attachment to your Japanese sword had been
driven into his breast up to the hilt, actually splitting his heart. To
deliver such a blow, with such a weapon, required uncommon strength and
skill. I think I describe it here as 'un-English.'"
Brett referred to his scrap-book. In spite of himself, he felt all his old
interest reawakening in this remarkable crime.
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