steadily through every relic
left to us of Richard Saint Leger, until nothing remained to be examined
but his hanger and belt, I found myself as destitute of any scrap of the
information I sought as I had been at the commencement of the search.

It was not in the least likely that any one would select such an
unsuitable place as the sheath of a cutlass in which to conceal an
important document; still, that I might never in the future have reason
to reproach myself with having passed over even the most unlikely
hiding-place, I took down the weapon from the peg on which it hung, and
with some difficulty drew the blade from its leather sheath.

There was nothing at all extraordinary about the weapon or its
mountings; blade and hilt were alike perfectly plain; but what a story
that piece of steel could have told, had it been gifted with the power
of speech. It was notched and dinted from guard to point, every notch
and every dint bearing eloquent evidence of stirring adventure and
doughty deeds of valour. But I was not there on that occasion to dream
over a notched and rusty cutlass; I therefore laid the weapon aside,
and, with the belt across my knees, proceeded to carefully explore the
interior of the sheath with the aid of a long wire. And it was while
thus engaged that my eye fell upon a portion of the stitching in the
belt that had the appearance of being newer than--or perhaps it would be
more correct to say of different workmanship from the rest. The belt, I
ought to explain, was a leather band nearly four inches wide, the
fastening being an ordinary plain, square, brass buckle. The belt was
made of two thicknesses of leather stitched together all along the top
and bottom edge; and it was a portion of this stitching along the top
edge that struck me as differing somewhat in appearance from the rest.

That I might the better inspect the stitching, I moved toward the window
with the belt in my hand; and, as I did so, I ran the thick leather
through my fingers. Surely the belt felt a shade thicker in that part
than anywhere else! And was it only my fancy, or did I detect a faint
sound as of the crackling of paper when I bent the belt at that spot in
the act of raising it to the light? Was it possible that Richard Saint
Leger had actually chosen so unlikely a spot as the interior of his
sword-belt in which to hide the important document? And yet, after all,
why unlikely? It would be as safe a place of concealm