I had sent in all haste for Dr. Rowell, but as yet he had not arrived,
and the strain was terrible. There lay my young friend upon his bed in
the hotel, and I believed that he was dying. Only the jewelled handle
of the knife was visible at his breast; the blade was wholly sheathed
in his body.
"Pull it out, old fellow," begged the sufferer through white, drawn
lips, his gasping voice being hardly less distressing than the
unearthly look in his eyes.
"No, Arnold," said I, as I held his hand and gently stroked his
forehead. It may have been instinct, it may have been a certain
knowledge of anatomy that made me refuse.
"Why not? It hurts," he gasped. It was pitiful to see him suffer, this
strong, healthy, daring, reckless young fellow.
Dr. Rowell walked in--a tall, grave man, with gray hair. He went to the
bed and I pointed to the knife-handle, with its great, bold ruby in the
end and its diamonds and emeralds alternating in quaint designs in the
sides. The physician started. He felt Arnold's pulse and looked
puzzled.
"When was this done?" he asked.
"About twenty minutes ago," I answered.
The physician started out, beckoning me to follow.
"Stop!" said Arnold. We obeyed. "Do you wish to speak of me?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the physician, hesitating.
"Speak in my presence then," said my friend; "I fear nothing." It was
said in his old, imperious way, although his suffering must have been
great.
"If you insist----"
"I do."
"Then," said the physician, "if you have any matters to adjust they
should be attended to at once. I can do nothing for you."
"How long can I live?" asked Arnold.
The physician thoughtfully stroked his gray beard. "It depends," he
finally said; "if the knife be withdrawn you may live three minutes; if
it be allowed to remain you may possibly live an hour or two--not
longer."
Arnold never flinched.
"Thank you," he said, smiling faintly through his pain; "my friend here
will pay you. I have some things to do. Let the knife remain." He
turned his eyes to mine, and, pressing my hand, said, affectionately,
"And I thank you, too, old fellow, for not pulling it out."
The physician, moved by a sense of delicacy, left the room, saying,
"Ring if there is a change. I will be in the hotel office." He had not
gone far when he turned and came back. "Pardon me," said he, "but there
is a young surgeon in the hotel who is said to be a very skilful man.
My specialty is not surgery, but medicine. May I call him?"
"Yes," said I, eagerly; but Arnold smiled and shook his head. "I fear
there will not be time," he said. But I refused to heed him and
directed that the surgeon be called immediately. I was writing at
Arnold's dictation when the two men entered the room.
There was something of nerve and assurance in the young surgeon that
struck my attention. His manner, though quiet, was bold and
straightforward and his movements sure and quick. This young man had
already distinguished himself in the performance of some difficult
hospital laparotomies, and he was at that sanguine age when ambition
looks through the spectacles of experiment. Dr. Raoul Entrefort was the
new-comer's name. He was a Creole, small and dark, and he had travelled
and studied in Europe.
"Speak freely," gasped Arnold, after Dr. Entrefort had made an
examination.
"What think you, doctor?" asked Entrefort of the older man.
"I think," was the reply, "that the knife-blade has penetrated the
ascending aorta, about two inches above the heart. So long as the blade
remains in the wound the escape of blood is comparatively small, though
certain; were the blade withdrawn the heart would almost instantly
empty itself through the aortal wound."
Meanwhile, Entrefort was deftly cutting away the white shirt and the
undershirt, and soon had the breast exposed. He examined the
gem-studded hilt with the keenest interest.
"You are proceeding on the assumption, doctor," he said, "that this
weapon is a knife."
"Certainly," answered Dr. Rowell, smiling; "what else can it be?"
"It _is_ a knife," faintly interposed Arnold.
"Did you see the blade?" Entrefort asked him, quickly.
"I did--for a moment."
Entrefort shot a quick look at Dr. Rowell and whispered, "Then it is
_not_ suicide." Dr. Rowell looked puzzled and said nothing.
"I must disagree with you, gentlemen," quietly remarked Entrefort;
"this is not a knife." He examined the handle very narrowly. Not only
was the blade entirely concealed from view within Arnold's body, but
the blow had been so strongly delivered that the skin was depressed by
the guard. "The fact that it is not a knife presents a very curious
series of facts and contingencies," pursued Entrefort, with amazing
coolness, "some of which are, so far as I am informed, entirely novel
in the history of surgery."
A quizzical expression, faintly amused and manifestly interested, was
upon Dr. Rowell's face. "What is the weapon, doctor?" he asked.
"A stiletto."
Arnold started. Dr. Rowell appeared confused. "I must confess," he
said, "my ignorance of the differences among these penetrating weapons,
whether dirks, daggers, stilettos, poniards, or bowie-knives."
"With the exception of the stiletto," explained Entrefort, "all the
weapons you mention have one or two edges, so that in penetrating they
cut their way. A stiletto is round, is ordinarily about half an inch or
less in diameter at the guard, and tapers to a sharp point. It
penetrates solely by pushing the tissues aside in all directions. You
will understand the importance of that point."
Dr. Rowell nodded, more deeply interested than ever.
"How do you know it is a stiletto, Dr. Entrefort?" I asked.
"The cutting of these stones is the work of Italian lapidaries," he
said, "and they were set in Genoa. Notice, too, the guard. It is much
broader and shorter than the guard of an edged weapon; in fact, it is
nearly round. This weapon is about four hundred years old, and would be
cheap at twenty thousand florins. Observe, also, the darkening color of
your friend's breast in the immediate vicinity of the guard; this
indicates that the tissues have been bruised by the crowding of the
'blade,' if I may use the term."
"What has all this to do with me?" asked the dying man.
"Perhaps a great deal, perhaps nothing. It brings a single ray of hope
into your desperate condition."
Arnold's eyes sparkled and he caught his breath. A tremor passed all
through him, and I felt it in the hand I was holding. Life was sweet to
him, then, after all--sweet to this wild dare-devil who had just faced
death with such calmness! Dr. Rowell, though showing no sign of
jealousy, could not conceal a look of incredulity.
"With your permission," said Entrefort, addressing Arnold, "I will do
what I can to save your life."
"You may," said the poor boy.
"But I shall have to hurt you."
"Well."
"Perhaps very much."
"Well."
"And even if I succeed (the chance is one in a thousand) you will never
be a sound man, and a constant and terrible danger will always be
present."
"Well."
Entrefort wrote a note and sent it away in haste by a bell-boy.
"Meanwhile," he resumed, "your life is in imminent danger from shock,
and the end may come in a few minutes or hours from that cause. Attend
without delay to whatever matters may require settling, and Dr.
Rowell," glancing at that gentleman, "will give you something to brace
you up. I speak frankly, for I see that you are a man of extraordinary
nerve. Am I right?"
"Be perfectly candid," said Arnold.
Dr. Rowell, evidently bewildered by his cyclonic young associate, wrote
a prescription, which I sent by a boy to be filled. With unwise zeal I
asked Entrefort,--
"Is there not danger of lockjaw?"
"No," he replied; "there is not a sufficiently extensive injury to
peripheral nerves to induce traumatic tetanus."
I subsided. Dr. Rowell's medicine came and I administered a dose. The
physician and the surgeon then retired. The poor sufferer straightened
up his business. When it was done he asked me,--
"What is that crazy Frenchman going to do to me?"
"I have no idea; be patient."
In less than an hour they returned, bringing with them a keen-eyed,
tall young man, who had a number of tools wrapped in an apron.
Evidently he was unused to such scenes, for he became deathly pale upon
seeing the ghastly spectacle on my bed. With staring eyes and open
mouth he began to retreat towards the door, stammering,--
"I--I can't do it."
"Nonsense, Hippolyte! Don't be a baby. Why, man, it is a case of life
and death!"
"But--look at his eyes! he is dying!"
Arnold smiled. "I am not dead, though," he gasped.
"I--I beg your pardon," said Hippolyte.