One other thing, however, pointed at him in a worse manner.

A short sword, or very long knife, had been drawn out of his elegant walking-stick, and lay in front of him upon the stones.
It did not, however, appear to be bloody.
The police had already pushed into the centre with their ponderous omnipotence, and even as they did so, Rupert Grant sprang forward with his incontrollable and intolerable secret.
"That is the man, constable," he shouted, pointing at the battered lieutenant.

"He is a suspicious character.

He did the murder." "There's been no murder done, sir," said the policeman, with his automatic civility.

"The poor man's only hurt.