The man was almost upon Peter—I had not reached him—when there was a hiss at my ear, a flash in the sun, a streak of light shot past me, and for an instant I saw the handle of a knife quivering at his throat. It was just above the breast bone—a fair bulls-eye—and the blade was buried. To this day I remember exactly how it looked, quivering rapidly for an instant with the force of the blow; an ivory handle, stained and polished with much grasping, one point of its curved surface reflecting the sunlight in a fierce flicker, which hurt my eyes. Then the man made a lunge at Peter, missed, and fell sprawling. Peter and I stood still, staring at him. He squirmed a little. “It was well thrown,” said Peter thoughtfully; “a’most too well.” “Did for him,” said a voice right behind us. “May as well take my knife.” {232} The owner of the voice stepped forward, bent, and coolly drew the knife from the throat. It was followed by a gush of blood. He moved his foot quickly, so that it should not be stained by the blood; then wiped the blade deliberately and carefully on the gaudy sash around the body on the ground. Then he stood straight again, slipping the knife into its sheath on his hip. “Better fade away, mates,” he said. “Follow me. I know the town.” The massive black door was opening cautiously. The boy lay upon the ground, overcome with fright. The knife-thrower moved away silently and swiftly, and Peter and I followed him. With twistings and turnings and doublings that would have done credit to the craftiest old fox, we came, at last, to the water-front, and to the boat landing. We saw the boat just putting off from the ship. I turned to our companion, for I had had no chance to see what he was like, and we had been too busy to observe anyway; but his back was not prepossessing, as he threaded those narrow lanes with swiftness and certainty. I saw Peter looking him over too, with his air of detachment, and a half smile of amusement on his face.