"if he himself was murdered at least ten or fifteen minutes before the doctor was. And even if we assume that he had an indirect hand in it, and the circumstances surrounding the several murders would seem to disprove this, there is his own death still to be accounted for." He turned to the artist. "Mr. Deweese, did you know Max Berjet?"
Deweese shook his head.
"Never heard of him until tonight," he declared.
The major sighed.
"I thought as much," he asserted. "It seems a waste of time to try to fasten Sprague's murder and the attack on you on Berjet." He thought for a moment; then: "Sergeant Alington, you are sure, are you, that you have not been over-hasty in the conclusions you have drawn from your cursory examination of the prints? If there is any doubt in your mind, I suggest that you return to headquarters and develop the plates at once."
"You can judge for yourself, major," returned Alington, a little nettled. Like most experts, so-called and otherwise, it annoyed him to have a carefully-formed opinion of his disputed or even questioned. He could countenance such a thing in court, under the baleful eye of His Honor; but it was quite another thing at the scene of a crime, where he felt himself to be upon his own ground.
Strange, sensing his annoyance, paused long enough in his exploration of the table drawer to look at him and grin. Catching the latter's eye he winked, which exasperated the expert to such an extent that he dropped his magnifying glass. Strange, feeling fully repaid for any fancied injury, grinned again and dumped the contents of the drawer on the table.
With an injured air, Alington retrieved his magnifying glass and offered it to the major. He then held out for Dobson's inspection a set of finger-prints on a regulation blank and the dagger that the coroner had withdrawn from the breast of the dead valet. The dagger was an ordinary white bone-handled hunting knife, with a six-inch, double-edged blade. Dobson held it gingerly by the blood-smeared blade, in order not to disturb the thin coating of black powder that had been sprinkled over the handle.
Like most efficient police officials, Dobson had some knowledge of dactyloscopy, and the detectives awaited his verdict with eagerness. Applying the magnifying glass to the handle of the knife, the major leisurely examined the series of whorls and ridges that showed through the black coating. He then compared them with the finger-prints of the dead scientist, and, when he had concluded his examination, slowly nodded his head.
"You are right, sergeant," he was forced to acknowledge. "The two sets of prints are undoubtedly identical." He handed the dagger and glass to the expert. "Your evidence can not be combated, sergeant," he added.
Alington inclined his head slightly and retired to his place beside the table.
"Well," grumbled Strange, disappointed by the expert's vindication, "that at least clears up the first murder. As for the murder of Berjet, as clues are wholly lacking, in my opinion the only way we will make any headway is to motivate the crime."
"Has the ownership of the dagger been established?" asked the coroner.
"It has," replied Strange, without enthusiasm.
He held up to view the sheath of the hunting-knife, which he had found in the table drawer. A large "M. B." had been cut on the front of the leather covering by an unskilled hand. The letters were crude and the edges worn, and they had evidently been cut in the leather a long while ago.
