THE PRINTS OF A VANISHED HAND
Mr. Bundy’s opinion that no particular significance attached to the
finding of further relics of the missing woman was one that I was
myself disposed to adopt. The disappearance of poor Angelina was an
undeniable fact, and there seemed to be no doubt that her body had
fallen, or been cast, into the river. On these facts, the recovery of
further articles belonging to her, and presumably detached from the
body, shed no additional light. From the body itself, whenever it
should be surrendered by the river, one hoped that something fresh
might be learned. But all that anyone could say was that Angelina
Frood had disappeared, that her disappearance was almost certainly
connected with a crime, and that the agents of that crime and their
motives for committing it were alike an impenetrable mystery, a
mystery that the finding of further detached articles tended in no way
to solve.
I shall, therefore, pass somewhat lightly over the incidents of the
succeeding discoveries, notwithstanding the keen interest in them
displayed by Sergeant Cobbledick and even by Thorndyke. On Monday, the
25th of May, the second shoe was found (to Israel Bangs’ unspeakable
indignation) by Samuel Hooper of Foul Anchor Alley, who discovered it
shortly after high-water, lying on the gridiron close to Gas-house
Point, and brought it in triumph to the police station.
After this, there followed a long interval, occupied by a feverish
contest between Israel Bangs and Samuel Hooper. But the luck fell to
the experienced Israel. On Saturday, the 20th of June, that
investigator, having grounded his boat below a wharf between Gas-house
Point and the bridge, discovered a silver-headed hat-pin lying on the
shore between two of the piles of the wharf. Its identity was
unmistakable. The silver poppy-head that crowned the pin was no trade
production that might have had thousands of indistinguishable fellows.
It was an individual work wrought by an artist in metal, and excepting
its fellow, there was probably not another like it in the world.
The discovery of this object roused a positive frenzy of search. The
stretch of muddy shore between Gas-house Point and the bridge
literally swarmed with human shore-rats, male and female, adult and
juvenile. Every day, and all the day, excepting at high-water, Israel
Bangs hovered in his oozy little basket of a boat on the extreme edge
of the mud, scanning every inch of slime, and glowering fiercely at
the poachers ashore who were raking over his preserves. But nothing
came of it. Day after day passed. The black and odorous mud was
churned up by countless feet; the pebbles were sorted out severally by
innumerable filthy hands; every derelict pot, pan, box, or meat-tin
was picked up again and again, and explored to its inmost recesses.
But in vain. Not a single relic of any kind was brought to light by
all those searchings and grubbings in the mud. Presently the searchers
began to grow discouraged. Some of them gave up the search; others
migrated to the shore beyond the bridge, and were to be seen wading in
the mud below the Esplanade, the cricket-ground, or the boat-building
yards. So the month of June ran out, and the third month began. And
still there was no sign of the body.
Meanwhile I watched the two professional investigators, and noted a
certain similarity in their outlook and methods. Both were keenly
interested in the discoveries; and both, I observed, personally
examined the localities of the finds. The sergeant conducted me to
each spot in turn, making appropriate, but not very illuminating,
comments; and I perceived that he was keeping a careful account of
time and place. So, too, with Thorndyke, who had now taken to coming
down regularly each week-end. He visited each spot where anything had
been found, marking it carefully on his map, together with a reference
number, and inquiring minutely as to the character of the object, its
condition, and the state of the tide and the hour of the day when it
was discovered; all of which particulars he entered in his note-book
under the appropriate reference number.
Both of my friends, too, expressed increasing surprise and uneasiness
at the non-appearance of the body. The sergeant was really worried,
and he expressed his sentiments in a tone of complaint as if he felt
that he was not being fairly treated.
“It’s getting very serious, Doctor,” he protested. “Nearly three
months gone--three summer months, mind you--and not a sign of it. I
don’t like the look of things at all. This case means a lot to me.
It’s my chance. It’s a detective-inspector’s job, and if I bring it
off it’ll be a big feather in my cap. I want to get a conviction, and
so far I haven’t got the material for a coroner’s verdict. I’ve half a
mind to do a bit of creeping myself.”
Thorndyke’s observations on the case were much to the same effect.
Discussing it one Saturday afternoon at the beginning of July, when I
had met him at Strood Station and was walking with him into Rochester,
he said:
“My feeling is that the crux of this case is going to be the question
of identity--if the body ever comes to light. Of course, if it
doesn’t, there is no case: it is simply an unexplained disappearance.
But if the body is found and is unrecognizable excepting by clothing
and other extrinsic evidence, it will be hard to get a conviction even
if the unrecognizable corpse should give some clue to the
circumstances of death.”
“I suppose,” said I, “the police are searching for Nicholas Frood.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “They are not likely to be wasting efforts
to find a murderer when there is no evidence that a murder has been
committed. What could they do if they did find him? The woman was not
in his custody or even living with him. And his previous conduct is
not relevant in the absence of evidence of his wife’s death.”
“You said you were making some inquiries yourself.”
“So I am. And I am not without hopes of picking up his tracks. But
that is a secondary matter. What we have to settle beyond the shadow
of a doubt is the question, ‘What has become of Angelina Frood? Is she
dead? And, if she is, what was the cause and what were the
circumstances of her death?’ The evidence in our possession points to
the conclusion that she is dead, and that she met her death by foul
means. That is the belief that the known facts produce. But we have
got to turn that belief into certainty. Then it will be time to
inquire as to the identity of the criminal.”
“Do you suppose the body would be unrecognizable now?”
“I feel no doubt that it would be quite unrecognizable by ordinary
means if it has been in the water all this time. But it would still be
identifiable in the scientific sense, if we could only obtain the
necessary data. It could, for instance, be tested by the Bertillon
measurements, if we had them; and it would probably yield
finger-prints, clear enough to recognize, long after the disappearance
of all facial character or bodily traits.”
“Would it really?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Even if the whole outer skin of the hand had
come off bodily, like a glove, as it commonly does in long-submerged
bodies, that glove-like cast would yield fairly clear finger-prints if
property treated--with dilute formalin, for instance. And then the
fingers from which the outer skin had become detached would still
yield recognizable finger-prints, if similarly treated; for you must
remember that the papillary ridges which form the finger-print
pattern, are in the true skin. The outer skin is merely moulded on
them. But, unfortunately, the question is one of merely academic
interest to us as we have no original finger-prints of Mrs. Frood’s by
which to test the body. The only method of scientific identification
that seems to be available is that of anthropometric measurements, as
employed by Bertillon.”
“But,” I objected, “the Bertillon system is based on the existence of
a record of the measurements of the person to be identified. We have
no record of the measurements of Mrs. Frood.”
“True,” he agreed. “But you may remember that Dr. George Bertillon was
accustomed to apply his system, not only to suspected persons who had
been arrested, but also to stray garments, hat, gloves, shoes, and so
forth, that came into the possession of the police. But it is clear
that, if such garments can be compared with a table of recorded
measurements, they can be used as standards of comparison to determine
the identity of a dead body. Of course, the measurements would have to
be taken, both of the garments and of the body, by someone having an
expert knowledge of anthropometrical methods.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But it seems a sound method. I must mention it
to Cobbledick. He has the undoubted shoes, and I have no doubt that he
could get a supply of worn garments from Mrs. Gillow.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke. “And, speaking of Mrs. Gillow reminds me of
another point that I have been intending to inquire into. You
mentioned to me that Mrs. Gillow told you, at the time of the
disappearance, that she had been expecting a tragedy of some kind. She
must have had some grounds for that expectation.”
“She said it was nothing but a vague, general impression.”
“Still, there must have been something that gave her that impression.
Don’t you think it would be well to question her a little more
closely?”
“Perhaps it might,” said I, not very enthusiastically. “We are close
to the house now. We can call in and see her, if you like.”
“I think we ought to leave no stone unturned,” said he; and a minute
or two later, when we arrived opposite the office, he remarked,
looking across attentively at the two houses: “I don’t see our friend
Bundy’s face at the window.”
“No,” I replied, “he is playing tennis somewhere up at the Vines. But
here is Mrs. Gillow, herself, all dressed up and evidently going out
visiting.”
The landlady had appeared at the door just as we were crossing the
road. Perceiving that we were bearing down on her, she paused, holding
the door ajar. I ran up the steps, and having wished her “good
afternoon” asked if she had time to answer one or two questions.
“Certainly,” she replied, “though I mustn’t stay long because I have
promised to go to tea with my sister at Frinsbury. I usually go there
on a Saturday. Perhaps we had better go into poor Mrs. Frood’s room.”
She opened the door of the sitting-room, and we all went in and sat
down.
“I have been talking over this mysterious affair, Mrs. Gillow,” said
I, “with my friend, Dr. Thorndyke, who is a lawyer, and he suggested
that you might be able to throw some light on it. You remember that
you had had some forebodings of some sort of trouble or disaster.”
“I had,” she replied, dismally, “but that was only because she always
seemed so worried and depressed, poor dear. And, of course, I knew
about that good-for-nothing husband of hers. That was all. Sergeant
Cobbledick asked me the same question, but I had nothing to tell him.”
“Did the sergeant examine the rooms?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, he looked over the place, and he opened her little davenport--it
isn’t locked--and read through one or two letters that he found there,
but he didn’t take them away. All he took with him was a few torn-up
letters that he found in the waste-paper basket.”
“If those other letters are still in the davenport,” said Thorndyke,
“I think it would be well for us to look through them carefully, if
you don’t mind, Mrs. Gillow.”
“I don’t see that there could be any harm in it,” she replied. “I’ve
never touched anything in her rooms, myself, since she went away. I
thought it better not to. I haven’t even washed up her tea-things.
There they are, just as she left them, poor lamb. But if you are going
to look through those letters, I will ask you to excuse me, or I shall
keep my sister waiting for tea.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Gillow,” said I. “Don’t let us detain you. And, by
the way,” I added, as I walked with her to the door, “it would be as
well not to say anything to anybody about my having come here with my
friend.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied. “I think you are right. The least said,
the soonest mended”; and with this profound generalization she went
out and I shut the street door after her.
When I returned to the sitting-room I found Thorndyke engaged in a
minute examination of the tea-things, and in particular of the spoon.
I proceeded at once to the davenport, and, finding it unlocked, lifted
the desk-lid and peered into the interior. It contained a supply of
papers and envelopes, neatly stacked, and one or two letters, which I
took out. They all appeared to be from the same person--the Miss
Cumbers, of whom I had heard, and a rapid glance at the contents
showed that they were of no use as a source of information. I passed
them to Thorndyke--who had laid down the spoon and was now looking
inquisitively about the room--who scanned them rapidly and returned
them to me.
“There is nothing in them,” said he. “Possibly the contents of the
waste-paper basket were more illuminating. But I suspect not, as the
sergeant appears to be as much in the dark as we are. Shall we have a
look at the bedroom before we go?”
I saw no particular reason for doing so, but, assuming that he knew
best, I made no objection. Going out into the hall, we entered the
deserted bed-room, the door of which was locked, though the key had
not been removed. At the threshold Thorndyke paused and stood for
nearly half a minute looking about the room in the same queer,
inquisitive way that I had noticed in the other room, as if he were
trying to fix a mental picture of it. Meanwhile, full of the Bertillon
system, I had walked across to the wardrobe to see what garments were
available for measurement. I had my hand on the knob of the door when
my glance fell on two objects on the dressing-table; an empty tumbler
and a small water-bottle, half-full. There was nothing very remarkable
about these objects, taken by themselves, but, even from where I
stood, I could see that both bore a number of finger-marks which stood
out conspicuously on the plain glass.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “Here is the very thing that you were speaking
of. Do you see what it is?”
Apparently he had, for he had already taken his gloves out of his
pocket and was putting them on.
“Don’t touch them, Strangeways,” said he, as I was approaching to
inspect them more closely. “If these are Mrs. Frood’s finger-prints
they may be invaluable. We mustn’t confuse them by adding our own.”
“Whose else could they be?” I asked.
“They might be Sergeant Cobbledick’s,” he replied. “The sergeant has
been in here.” He drew a chair up to the table, and, taking a lens
from his pocket, began systematically to examine the markings.
“They are a remarkably fine set,” he remarked, “and a complete
set--the whole ten digits. Whoever made them held the bottle in the
right hand and the tumbler in the left. And I don’t think they are the
sergeant’s. They are too small and too clear and delicate.”
“No,” I agreed, “and the probabilities are against their being his.
There is no reason why he should have wanted to take a drink of water
during the few minutes that he spent here. It would have been
different if it had been a beer bottle. But it would have been quite
natural for Mrs. Frood to drink a glass of water while she was
dressing or before she started out.”
“Yes,” said he. “Those are the obvious probabilities. But we must turn
them into certainties if we can. Probabilities are not good data to
work from. But the question is now, what are we to do? I have a small
camera with me, but it would not be very convenient to take the
photographs here, and it would occupy a good deal of time. On the
other hand, these things would be difficult to pack without smearing
the finger-prints. We want a couple of small boxes.”
“Perhaps,” said I, “we may find something that will do if we take a
look round.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “we must explore the place. Meanwhile, I think I
will develop up these prints for our immediate information, as we have
to try to find some others to verify them.”
He went back to the sitting-room, where he had put down the two cases
that he always brought with him: a small suit-case that contained his
toilet necessaries and a similar-sized case covered with green canvas
which had been rather a mystery to me. I had never seen it open, and
had occasionally speculated on the nature of its contents. My
curiosity was now to be satisfied, for, when he returned with it in
his hand he explained: “This is what I call my research-case. It
contains the materials and appliances for nearly every kind of
medico-legal investigation, and I hardly ever travel without it.”
He placed it on a chair and opened it, when I saw that it formed a
complete portable laboratory, containing, among other things a
diminutive microscope, a little folding camera, and an insufflator, or
powder-spray. The latter he now took from its compartment, and,
lifting the tumbler with his gloved hand, stood it on a corner of the
mantelpiece and blew over it with the insufflator a cloud of
impalpably fine white powder, which settled evenly on the surface of
the glass. He then tapped the tumbler gently once or twice with a lead
pencil, when most of the powder coating either jarred off or crept
down the surface. Finally, he blew at it lightly, which removed the
rest of the powder, leaving the finger-prints standing out on the
clear glass as if they had been painted on with Chinese white.
While he was operating in the same manner on the water-bottle--having
first emptied it into the ewer--I examined the tumbler with the aid of
his lens. The markings were amazingly clear and distinct. Through the
lens I could see, not only the whole of the curious, complicated
ridge-pattern, but even the rows of little round spots that marked the
orifices of the sweat glands. For the first time, I realized what a
perfect means of identification these remarkable imprints furnished.
“Now,” said Thorndyke, when he had finished with the bottle, “the two
questions are, where shall we look for confirmatory finger-prints, and
where are we to get the boxes that we want for packing these things?
You said that Mrs. Frood had a kitchen.”
“Yes. But won’t you try the furniture here; the wardrobe door, for
instance. The dark, polished mahogany ought to give good prints.”
“An excellent suggestion, Strangeways,” said he. “We might even find
the sergeant’s finger-prints, as he has probably had the wardrobe
open.”
He sprayed the three doors of the wardrobe, and when he had tapped
them and blown away the surplus powder, there appeared near the edge
of each a number of finger-marks, mostly rather indistinct, and none
of them nearly so clear as those on the glass.
“This is very satisfactory,” said Thorndyke. “They are poor prints,
but you can see quite plainly that there are two pairs of hands, one
pair much larger than the other; and the prints of the larger hands
are evidently not the same pattern as those on the glass, whereas
those of the smaller ones are quite recognizable as the same, in spite
of their indistinctness. As the large ones are almost certainly
Cobbledick’s, the small ones are pretty certainly Mrs. Frood’s. But we
mustn’t take anything for granted. Let us go down to the kitchen. We
shall have a better chance there.”
The door of the basement staircase was still unlocked, as Mrs. Gillow
had described it. I threw it open, and we descended together, I
carrying the insufflator and he bearing the tumbler and bottle in his
gloved hands. When he had put the two articles down on the kitchen
table, he proceeded to powder first the kitchen door and then the
side-door that gave on to the passage between the two houses. Both of
them were painted a dark green and both yielded obvious finger-marks,
and though these were mere oval smudges, devoid of any trace of
pattern, their size and their groupings showed clearly enough that
they appertained to a small hand. But we got more conclusive
confirmation from a small aluminium frying-pan that had been left on
the gas stove; for, on powdering the handle, Thorndyke brought into
view a remarkably clear thumb-print, which was obviously identical
with that on the water-bottle.
“I think,” said he, “that settles the question. If Mrs. Gillow has not
touched anything in these premises--as she assures us that she has
not--then we can safely assume that these are Mrs. Frood’s
finger-prints.”
“Are you going to annex the frying-pan to produce in evidence?” I
asked.
“No,” he replied. “This verification is for our own information: to
secure us against the chance of producing Cobbledick’s finger-prints
to identify the body. I propose, for the present, to say nothing to
anyone as to our possessing this knowledge. When the time comes we can
tell what we know. Until then we shall keep our own counsel.”
Once more I found myself dimly surprised at my friend’s apparently
unnecessary secrecy, but, assuming that he knew best, I made no
comment, but watched with somewhat puzzled curiosity his further
proceedings. His interest in the place was extraordinary. In a queer,
cat-like fashion he prowled about the premises, examining the most
trivial objects with almost ludicrous attention. He went carefully
through the cooking appliances and the glass and china; he peered into
cupboards, particularly into a large, deep cupboard in which spare
crockery was stored, and which was, oddly enough, provided with a Yale
lock; he sorted out the meagre contents of the refuse-bin, and
incidentally salved from it a couple of cardboard boxes that had
originally contained groceries, and he explored the, now somewhat
unsavoury, larder.
“I suppose,” he said reflectively, “the dustman must have used the
side door. Do you happen to know?”
“I don’t,” said I, inwardly wondering what the deuce the dustman had
to do with the case. “I understand that the door of the passage was
not used.”
“But she couldn’t have had the dust-bin carried up the stairs and out
at the front door,” he objected.
“I should think not,” said I. “Perhaps we could judge better if we had
a look at the passage.”
He adopted the suggestion and we opened the side-door--which had a
Yale night-latch--and went out into the covered passage that was
common to the two houses. The door that opened on to the street was
bolted on the inside, but the bolts were in good working order, as we
ascertained by drawing them gently; so this gave no evidence one way
or the other. Then Thorndyke carefully examined the hard gravel floor
of the passage, apparently searching for dropped fragments, or the
dustman’s foot-prints; but though there were traces suggesting that
the side-doors had been used, there were no perceptible tracks leading
to the street or in any way specifically suggestive of dustmen.
“Japp seems fond of Yale locks,” observed Thorndyke, indicating the
second side-door, which was also fitted with one. “I wonder where he
keeps his dust-bin.”
“Would it be worth while to ask him?” said I, more and more mystified
by this extraordinary investigation.
“No,” he replied, very definitely. “A question often gives more
information than it elicits.”
“It might easily do that in my case,” I remarked with a grin; upon
which he laughed softly and led the way back into the house. There I
gathered up the two boxes and the insufflator and made my way up to
the bed-room, he following with the tumbler and the water-bottle. Then
came the critical business of packing these two precious objects in
the boxes in such a way as to protect the finger-prints from contact
with the sides; which was accomplished very neatly with the aid of a
number of balls of plasticine from the inexhaustible research-case.
“This is a little disappointing,” said Thorndyke, looking at the
hair-brush and comb as he took off his gloves. “I had hoped to collect
a useful sample of hair. But her excessive tidiness defeats us. There
seems to be only one or two short hairs and one full length. However,
we may as well have them. They won’t be of much use for comparison
with the naked eye, but even a single hair can be used as a colour
control under the microscope.”
He combed the brush until the last hair was extracted from it, and
then drew the little collection from the comb and arranged it on a
sheet of paper. There were six short hairs, from two to four inches
long, and one long hair, which seemed to have been broken off, as it
had no bulb.
“Many ladies keep a combing-bag,” he remarked, as he bestowed the
collection in a seed-envelope from the research-case; “but I gather
from your description that Mrs. Frood’s hair was luxuriant enough to
render that economy unnecessary. At any rate, there doesn’t seem to be
such a bag. And now I think we have finished, and we haven’t done so
badly.”
“We have certainly got an excellent set of finger-prints,” said I.
“But it seems rather doubtful whether there will ever be an
opportunity of using them; and if there isn’t, we shan’t be much more
forward for our exploration. Of course, there is the hair.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “there is the hair. That may be quite valuable.
And perhaps there are some other matters--but time will show.”
With this somewhat cryptic conclusion he proceeded with great care to
pack the two boxes in his suit-case, wedging them with his pyjamas so
that they should not get shaken in transit.
As we walked home I reflected on Thorndyke’s last remark. It seemed to
contain a suggestion that the mystery of Angelina’s death was not so
complete to him as it was to me. For my own part, I could see no
glimmer of light in any direction. She seemed to have vanished without
leaving a trace excepting those few derelict objects which had been
washed ashore and which told us nothing. But was it possible that
those objects bore some significance that I had overlooked? That they
were charged with some message that I had failed to decipher? I
recalled a certain reticence on the part of Cobbledick which had made
me suspect him of concealing from me some knowledge that he held or
some inferences that he had drawn; and now there was this cryptic
remark of Thorndyke’s, offering the same suggestion. Might it possibly
be that the profound obscurity was only in my own mind, the product of
my inexperience, and that to these skilled investigators the problem
presented a more intelligible aspect? It might easily be. I determined
cautiously to approach the question.
“You seemed,” said I, “to imply, just now, that there are certain data
for forming hypotheses as to the solution of this mystery that
envelops the disappearance of Mrs. Frood. But I am not aware of any
such data. Are you?”
“Your question, Strangeways,” he replied, “turns on the meaning of the
word ‘aware.’ If two men, one literate and the other illiterate, look
at a page of a printed book, both may be said to be aware of it; that
is to say that in both it produces a retinal image which makes them
conscious of it as a visible object having certain optical properties.
In the case of the illiterate man the perception of the optical
properties is the total effect. But the literate man has something in
his consciousness already, and this something combines, as it were,
with the optical perception, and makes him aware of certain secondary
properties of the printed characters. To both, the page yields a
visual impression; but to one only does it yield what we may call a
psychical impression. Are they both aware of the page?”
“I appreciate your point,” said I, with a sour smile, “and I seem to
be aware of a rather skilful evasion of my question.”
He smiled in his turn and rejoined: “Your question was a little
indirect. Shall we have it in a more direct form?”
“What I wanted to know,” said I, “though I suppose I have no right to
ask, is whether there appears to you to be any prospect whatever of
finding any solution of the mystery of Mrs. Frood’s death.”
“The answer to that question,” he replied, “is furnished by my own
proceedings. I am not a communicative man, as you may have noticed,
but I will say this much: that I have taken, and am taking, a good
deal of trouble with this case, and am prepared to take more, and that
I do not usually waste my efforts on problems that appear to be
unsolvable. I am not disposed to say more than that, excepting to
refer you again to the instance of the printed page and to remind you
that whatever I know I have either learned from you or from the
observation, in your company, of objects equally visible to both of
us.”
This reply, if not very illuminating, at least answered my question,
as it conveyed to me that I was not likely to get much more
information out of my secretive friend. Nevertheless, I asked:
“About the man Frood: you were saying that you had some hopes of
running him to earth.”
“Yes, I have made a start. I have ascertained that he did apparently
set out for Brighton the day before Mrs. Frood’s disappearance, but he
never arrived there. That is all I know at present. He was seen
getting into the Brighton train, but he did not appear at the Brighton
barrier--my informant had the curiosity to watch all the passengers go
through--and he never made the visit which was the ostensible object
of his journey. So he must have got out at an intermediate station. It
may be difficult to trace him, but I am not without hope of succeeding
eventually. Obviously, his whereabouts on the fatal day is a matter
that has to be settled. At present he is the obvious suspect; but if
an alibi should be proved in his case, a search would have to be
initiated in some other direction.”
This conversation brought us to my house in time to relieve Mrs.
Dunk’s anxieties on the subject of dinner; and as the daylight was
already gone, the photographic operations were postponed until the
following morning. Indeed, Thorndyke had thought of taking the objects
to his chambers, where a more efficient outfit was available, but, on
reflection, he decided to take the photographs in my presence so that
I could, if necessary, attest their genuineness on oath. Accordingly,
on the following morning, we very carefully extracted the tumbler and
the bottle from their respective boxes and set them up, with a black
coat of mine for a background, at the end of a table. Then Thorndyke
produced his small folding camera--which pulled out to a surprising
length--and, having fitted it with a short-focus objective, made the
exposures, and developed the plates in a dark cupboard by the light of
a little red lamp from the research case. When the plates were dry we
inspected them through a lens, and found them microscopically sharp.
Finally, at Thorndyke’s suggestion, I scratched my initials with a
needle in the corner of each plate.
“Well,” I said, when he had finished, “you have got the evidence that
you wanted, and in a very complete form. It remains to be seen now
whether you will ever get an opportunity to use it.”
“Don’t be pessimistic, Strangeways,” said he. “We have had exceptional
luck in getting this splendid series of finger-prints. Let us hope
that Fortune will not desert us after making us these gifts.”
“What is to be done with the originals?” I asked. “Shall I put them
back where we found them?”
“I think not,” he replied. “If you have a safe or a secure lock-up
cupboard, where they could be put away, out of sight, and from whence
they could be produced if necessary, I will ask you to take charge of
them.”
There was a cupboard with a good lock in the old bureau that I had
found in my bedroom, and to this I conveyed the precious objects and
locked them in. And so ended--at least, for the present--the episode
of our raid on poor Angelina’s abode.