the terrace, toward the thatched roofs of Dealle Village that dropped to the south in gold and mauve steps. He passed the Queen Anne garden, the coursing field, and the racing paddock, and stopped in front of a weather-beaten sixteenth century building that caught the slanting rays of the western sun with deep porch and oriel windows, and that dead generations of Wades had used for a banqueting hall.
To-day it did service for a lumber room.
Hector opened the door, bolted it behind him, lit a couple of great wrought-iron lanterns that swung from brackets, and walked straight to the farther wall.
It was covered with trophies from many lands: Zulu assegais; Metabele knobkerries, long gadyami swords from Arabia with tapering blades and clumsy, wooden handles; double-barreled guns from the Persian Gulf, the sort which the Gulf Arabs call bandukyiah bi rulayin, or “two-mouthed guns”; murderous Khyberee knives; cheray daggers from Afghanistan; crooked Turkoman yataghans; throwing-knives from Tripoli and Tunis; and many other weapons—all silent, steely witnesses to the warlike prowess of many generations of the Wades of Dealle.
In the center, sheathed in moth-eaten crimson velvet studded with uncut, semi-precious stones, there was a short, broad blade with a silver hilt.
He took it down and unsheathed it.
It was about a foot long, leaflike in shape, and nine inches across half way between hilt and tapering point. Hilt as well as blade were covered with a delicate, inlaid
