LITMIR.BIZ

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leisure.”

      He extracted the camera—a quarter-plate instrument—from its case and opened it. Then, having swung the microscope on its stand into a horizontal position, he produced from the camera case a slab of mahogany with three brass feet, on which he placed the camera, and which brought the latter to a level with the eye-piece of the microscope.

      The front of the camera was fitted with a short sleeve of thin black leather, and into this the eye-piece end of the microscope was now passed, the sleeve being secured round the barrel of the microscope by a stout rubberband, thus producing a completely light-tight connection.

      Everything was now ready for taking the photograph. The light from the window having been concentrated on the thumb-print by means of a condenser, Thorndyke proceeded to focus the image on the ground-glass screen with extreme care and then, slipping a small leather cap over the objective, introduced the dark slide and drew out the shutter.

      “I will ask you to sit down and remain quite still while I make the exposure,” he said to me and the inspector. “A very little vibration is enough to destroy the sharpness of the image.”

      We seated ourselves accordingly, and Thorndyke then re­moved the cap, standing motionless, watch in hand, while he exposed the first plate.

      “We may as well take a second, in case this should not turn out quite perfect,” he said, as he replaced the cap and closed the shutter.

      He reversed the dark slide and made another exposure in the same way, and then, having removed the micrometer and replaced it by a slip of plain glass, he made two more exposures.

      “There are two plates left,” he remarked, as he drew out the second dark slide. “I think I will take a record of the blood-stain on them.”

      He accordingly made two more exposures—one of the larger blood-stain and one of the smaller smears.

      “There,” said he, with an air of satisfaction, as he proceeded to pack up what the inspector described as his “box of tricks.” “I think we have all the data that we can squeeze out of Scotland Yard, and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Singleton, for giving so many facilities to your natural enemy, the counsel for the defence.”

      “Not our natural enemies, doctor,” protested Mr. Singleton. “We work for a conviction, of course, but we don’t throw obstacles in the way of the defence. You know that perfectly well.”

      “Of course I do, my dear sir,” replied Thorndyke, shaking the official by the hand. “Haven’t I benefited by your help a score of times? But I am greatly obliged all the same. Good-bye.”

      “Good-bye, doctor. I wish you luck, though I fear you will find it ‘no go’ this time.”

      “We shall see,” replied Thorndyke, and with a friendly wave of the hand to the inspector he caught up the two cases and led the way out of the building.

      CHAPTER IV

      CONFIDENCES

      During our walk home my friend was unusually thoughtful and silent, and his face bore a look of concentration under which I thought I could detect, in spite of his habitually impassive expression, a certain suppressed excitement of a not entirely un­plea­surable kind. I forbore, however, from making any remarks or asking questions, not only because I saw that he was preoccupied, but also because, from my knowledge of the man, I judged that he would consider it his duty to keep his own counsel and to make no unnecessary confidences even to me.

      On our arrival at his chambers he immediately handed over the camera to Polton with a few curt directions as to the development of the plates, and, lunch being already prepared, we sat down at the table without delay.

      We had proceeded with our meal in silence for some time when Thorndyke suddenly laid down his knife and fork and looked into my face with a smile of quiet amusement.

      “It has just been borne in upon me, Jervis,” said he, “that you are the most companionable fellow in the world. You have the heaven-sent gift of silence.”

      “If silence is the test of companionability,” I answered, with a grin, “I think I can pay you a similar compliment in even more emphatic terms.”

      He laughed cheerfully and rejoined—

      “You are pleased to be sarcastic, I observe; but I maintain my position. The capacity to preserve an opportune silence is the rarest and most precious of social accomplishments. Now, most men would have plied me with questions and babbled comments on my proceedings at Scotland Yard, whereas you have allowed me to sort out, without interruption, a mass of evidence while it is still fresh and impressive, to docket each item and stow it away in the pigeonholes of my brain. By the way, I have made a ridiculous oversight.”

      “What is that?” I asked.

      “The ‘Thumbograph.’ I never ascertained whether the police have it or whether it is still in the possession of Mrs. Hornby.”

      “Does it matter?” I inquired.

      “Not much; only I must see it. And perhaps it will furnish an excellent pretext for you to call on Miss Gibson. As I am busy at the hospital this afternoon and Polton has his hands full, it would be a good plan for you to drop in at Endsley Gardens—that is the address, I think—and if you can see Miss Gibson, try to get a confidential chat with her, and extend your knowledge of the manners and customs of the three Messieurs Hornby. Put on your best bedside manner and keep your weather eye lifting. Find out everything you can as to the characters and habits of those three gentlemen, regardless of all scruples of delicacy. Everything is of importance to us, even to the names of their tailors.”

      “And with regard to the ‘Thumbograph’?”

      “Find out who has it, and, if it is still in Mrs. Hornby’s possession, get her to lend it to us or—what might, perhaps, be better—get her permission to take a photograph of it.”

      “It shall be done according to your word,” said I. “I will furbish up my exterior, and this very afternoon make my first appearance in the character of Paul Pry.”

      About an hour later I found myself upon the doorstep of Mr. Hornby’s house in Endsley Gardens listening to the jangling of the bell that I had just set in motion.

      “Miss Gibson, sir?” repeated the parlourmaid in response to my question. “She was going out, but I am not sure whether she has gone yet. If you will step in, I will go and see.”

      I followed her into the drawing-room, and, threading my way amongst the litter of small tables and miscellaneous furniture by which ladies nowadays convert their special domain into the semblance of a broker’s shop, let go my anchor in the vicinity of the fireplace to await the parlourmaid’s report.

      I had not long to wait, for in less than a minute Miss Gibson herself entered the room. She wore her hat and gloves, and I congratulated myself on my timely arrival.

      “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Dr. Jervis,” she said, holding out her hand with a frank and friendly manner, “but you are very welcome all the same. You have come to tell me something?”

      “On the contrary,” I replied, “I have come to ask you something.”

      “Well, that is better than nothing,” she said, with a shade of disappointment. “Won’t you sit down?”

      I seated myself with caution on a dwarf chair of scrofulous aspect, and opened my business without preamble.

      “Do you remember a thing called a ‘Thumbograph’?”

      “Indeed I do,” she replied with energy. “It was the cause of all this trouble.”

      “Do you know if the police took possession of it?”

      “The detective took it to Scotland Yard that the fingerprint experts might examine it and compare the two thumb-prints; and they wanted to keep it, but Mrs. Hornby was so distressed at the idea of its being used in evidence that they let her have it back. You see,

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