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Updated: June 6, 2025
"If necessary I will explain five years from now." "If I live." "If you live." Arnold drew me down to him and whispered, "Tell her to fly at once; this man may make trouble for her." Was there ever a more generous fellow? I thought that I recognized a thin, pale, bright face among the passengers who were leaving an Australian steamer which had just arrived at San Francisco. "Dr. Entrefort!"
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."
In a minute he had closed the bright end of the blade from view by drawing together the skin-flaps and sewing them firmly. Arnold returned to consciousness and glanced down at his breast. He seemed puzzled. "Where is the weapon?" he asked. "Here is part of it," answered Entrefort, holding up the handle. "And the blade " "That is an irremovable part of your internal machinery." Arnold was silent.
Many difficulties at once present themselves, and I do not wonder at Dr. Rowell's look of surprise and incredulity." That gentleman smiled and shook his head. "It is a desperate chance," continued Entrefort, "and is a novel case in surgery; but it is the only chance. The fact that the weapon is a stiletto is the important point a stupid weapon, but a blessing to us now.
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.
"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." "Well." Entrefort wrote a note and sent it away in haste by a bell-boy.
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?"
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.
"Thank God!" exclaimed Entrefort; "he has fainted he can't stop us now. Quick, Hippolyte!" The machinist attached the queer little machine to the handle of the weapon, seized the stiletto in his left hand, and with his right began a series of sharp, rapid movements backward and forward. "Hurry, Hippolyte!" urged Entrefort. "The metal is very hard." "Is it cutting?" "I can't see for the blood."
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