The Sheath of the Dagger

I was putting all the questions. Sir Cyril seemed not to be very
curious concerning the origin of my presence.

"What is Rosa to you?" I queried with emphasis.

"What is she to you?" he returned quickly.

"To me she is everything," I said.

"And to me, my young friend!"

I could not, of course, see Sir Cyril's face, but the tone of his
reply impressed and silenced me. I was mystified--and yet I felt glad
that he was there. Both of us forgot to be surprised at the
peculiarity of the scene. It appeared quite natural that he should
have supervened so dramatically at precisely the correct moment, and I
asked him for no more information. He evidently did know the place,
for he crept immediately to the ledge, and looked into the room above.
I followed, and stood by his side. The two women were still talking.

"Can't we get into the room, or do something?" I murmured.

"Not yet. How do we know that Deschamps means harm? Let us wait. Have
you a weapon?"

Sir Cyril spoke as one in command, and I accepted the assumption of
authority.

"Yes," I said; "I've got a revolver, and a little dagger."

"Who knows what may happen? Give me one of them--give me the dagger,
if you like."

I passed it to him in the darkness. Astounding as it may seem, I am
prepared solemnly to assert that at that moment I had forgotten the
history of the dagger, and Sir Cyril's connection with it.