Sherlock started fumbling in his pockets for a pen-knife, but I simply drew my dagger from my bosom, from its sheath in the busk of my corset.
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"Of course. How silly of me not to remember," said Sherlock in owlish tones.
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Paying no attention, I slit the end of the thin parcel.
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Pressing against its corners so that it opened rather like a mouth, I peered inside. I could see nothing except what seemed to be a muddle of shredded packing-paper. This I shook out, depositing it in my lap.
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第十章
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