“No. I have come to sell …” and, with English directness, pulling the ancient weapon from his pocket, “this!”
Ali Yusuf Khan picked up the blade and looked at it. At once a tremor ran through his body. His hand shook as if with palsy. But he controlled himself, went to the corner of the shop, lit another lamp, and examined the dagger minutely.
Finally he turned.
“You—” he asked, staring straight at Hector, “you say you want to sell—this?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
Hector flared up.
“Look here,” he said, “if you're trying to insinuate that I came by it through dishonest means …”
“No, no.” Ali Yusuf Khan was stern, domineering. “Answer me, saheb. Where did you get it?”
“Well—if you must know—it has always been in my family's possession.”
“Always?”
“For centuries. My father told me once that one of my ancestors brought it with him from Asia hundreds of years ago.”
“You—you know nothing else about this weapon—a legend? Perhaps a tradition?”
“No.” Hector was getting impatient. “Look here—I didn't come here to be cross-examined. I saw your advertisement, accepted it in good faith, and …”
"Why do you want to sell it?” cut in the other.
“Why?” Hector laughed, shortly, disagreeably. “
