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<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> <h2>THE CHAIN TIGHTENS</h2> An instant's silence followed Sylvester's words, and then a little murmur of interest and excitement, as the reporters bent closer above their work. I heard a quick, deep intaking of the breath from the man who sat beside me, and then I was on my feet. "Your Honour," I said to Goldberger, "it seems that an effort is to be made to incriminate Mr. Swain in this affair, and he should therefore be represented by counsel. I myself intend to represent him, and I ask for an hour's adjournment in order to consult with my client." Goldberger glanced at his watch. "I intended to adjourn for lunch," he said, "as soon as I had finished with Mr. Sylvester. We will adjourn now, if you wish—until one-thirty," he added. The battery of cameras was clicking at Swain, and two or three artists were making sketches of his head; there was a great bustle as the reporters gathered up their papers and hurried to their cars to search for the nearest telephone; the jury walked heavily away in charge of an officer to get their lunch at some near-by road-house; Sylvester was gathering up his prints and photographs and putting them carefully in his pocket; Simmonds was replacing the blood-stained clothing in the suit-case, to be held as evidence for the trial; but Swain sat there, with arms folded, staring straight before him, apparently unconscious of all this. Goldberger looked at him closely, as he came down to speak to me, but Swain did not glance up. "I can parole him in your custody, I suppose, Mr. Lester?" the coroner asked. "Yes; certainly," I assented. "Sylvester's evidence makes it look bad for him." "Will you introduce me to Sylvester? I should like to go over the prints with him." "Certainly;" and, a moment later, with the prints spread out before us, Sylvester was showing me their points of similarity. Godfrey came forward while he was talking and stood looking over his shoulder. I had heard of finger-print identification, of course, many times, but had made no study of the subject, and, I confess, the blurred photographs which Sylvester offered for my inspection seemed to me mighty poor evidence upon which to accuse a man of murder. The photographs showed the prints considerably larger than life-size, but this enlargement had also exaggerated the threads of the cloth, so that the prints seemed half-concealed by a heavy mesh. To the naked eye, the lines were almost indistinguishable, but under Sylvester's powerful glass they came out more clearly. "The thumb," said Sylvester, following the lines first to the right and then to the left with the point of a pencil, "is what we call a double whorl. It consists of fourteen lines, or ridges. With the micrometer," and he raised the lid of a little leather box which stood on the table, took out an instrument of polished steel and applied it to one of the photographs, "we get the angle of these ridges. See how I adjust it," and I watched him, as, with a delicate thumbscrew, he made the needle-like points of the finder coincide with the outside lines of the whorl. "Now here is a photograph from the other robe, also showing the thumb," and he applied the machine carefully to it. "It also is a double whorl of fourteen lines, and you see the angles are the same. And here is the print of the right thumb which your client made for me." He applied the micrometer and drew back that I might see for myself. "But these photographs are enlarged," I objected. "That makes no difference. Enlargement does not alter the angles. Here are the other prints." He compared them one by one, in the same manner. When he had finished, there was no escaping the conviction that they had been made by the same hand—that is, unless one denied the theory of finger-print identification altogether, and that, I knew, would be absurd. As he finished his demonstration, Sylvester glanced over my shoulder with a little deprecating smile, as of a man apologising for doing an unpleasant duty, and I turned to find Swain standing there, his face lined with perplexity. "You heard?" I asked. "Yes; and I believe Mr. Sylvester is right. I can't understand it." "Well," I said, "suppose we go and have some lunch, and then we can talk it over," and thanking Sylvester for his courtesy, I led Swain away. Godfrey fell into step beside us, and for some moments we walked on in silence. "There is only one explanation that I can see," said Godfrey, at last. "Swain, you remember, got to the library about a minute ahead of us, and when we reached the door he was lifting Miss Vaughan to the couch. In that minute, he must have touched the dead man." Swain shook his head doubtfully. "I don't see why I should have done that," he said. "It isn't a question of why you did it," Godfrey pointed out. "It's a question of whether you did it. Go over the scene in your mind, recalling as many details as you can, and then we'll go over it together, step by step, after lunch." It was a silent meal, and when it was over, Godfrey led the way into his study. "Now," he began, when we were seated, "where was Miss Vaughan at the moment you sprang through the door?" "She was lying on the floor by the table, in front of her father's chair," Swain replied. "You are sure of that?" "Yes; I didn't see her until I ran around the table." "I was hoping," said Godfrey, "that she had fainted with her arms clasped about her father's neck, and that, in freeing them, you made those marks on his robe." But Swain shook his head. "No," he said; "I'm positive I didn't touch him." "Then how did the marks get there?" "I don't know," said Swain helplessly. "Now, see here, Swain," said Godfrey, a little sternly, "there is only one way in which those finger-prints could have got on that garment, and that is from your fingers. If you didn't put them there consciously, you must have done so unconsciously. If they aren't explained in some way, the jury will very probably hold you responsible for the crime." "I understand that," Swain answered thickly; "but how can they be explained? I don't see why I should put my hands on Mr. Vaughan's throat, even unconsciously. And then there's the fact that at no time during the evening was I really unconscious—I was only confused and dazed." "Goldberger's theory is plain enough," said Godfrey, turning to me; "and I must say that it's a good one. He realises that there wasn't provocation enough to cause a man like Swain to commit murder, with all his senses about him; but his presumption is that the crime was committed while Swain was in a dazed condition and not wholly self-controlled. Such a thing is possible." "No, it isn't!" cried Swain, his face livid. "It isn't possible! I'm not a murderer. I remember everything else—do you think I wouldn't remember a thing like that!" "I don't know what to think," Godfrey admitted, a straight line between his brows. "Besides, there's the handkerchief." "I don't see any mystery about that," said Swain. "There's only one way that could have come there. It dropped from my wrist when I stooped over Miss Vaughan." Godfrey looked at me, and I nodded. Swain might as well know the worst. "That would be an explanation, sure enough," said Godfrey, slowly, "but for one fact—you didn't have any bandage on your wrist when you came back over the wall. Both Lester and I saw your wrist and the cut on it distinctly. Therefore, if you dropped the handkerchief there, it must have been before that." The blood had run from Swain's cheeks, as though drained by an open artery, and for a moment he sat silent, staring at the speaker. Then he raised his trembling right hand and looked at it, as though it might bear some mark to tell him whether it were indeed guilty. "But—but I don't understand!" he cried thickly. "You—you don't mean to intimate—you don't believe—but I wasn't unconscious, I tell you! I wasn't near the house until after we heard the screams! I'm sure of it! I'd stake my soul on it!" "Get a grip of yourself, Swain," said Godfrey, soothingly. "Don't let yourself go like that. No, I don't believe you killed Worthington Vaughan, consciously or unconsciously. I said Goldberger's theory was a good one, and it is; but I don't believe it. My belief is that the murder was done by the Thug; but there's nothing to support it, except the fact that he was on the ground and that a noose was used. There's not a bit of direct evidence to connect him with the crime, and there's a lot of direct evidence to connect you with it. It's up to us to explain it away. Now, think carefully before you answer my questions: Have you any recollection, however faint, of having seen Mahbub before this morning?" Swain sat for quite a minute searching his consciousness. Then, to my great disappointment, he shook his head. "No," he said; "I am sure I never saw him before." "Nor Silva?" "No, nor Silva—except, of course, the time, three or four months ago, when he gave me Mr. Vaughan's message." "Have you a distinct recollection that the library was empty when you sprang into it?" "Yes; very distinct. I remember looking about it, and then running past the table and discovering Miss Vaughan." "You saw her father also?" "Yes; but I merely glanced at him. I realised that he was dead." "And you also have a distinct recollection that you did not approach him or touch him?" "I am quite certain of that," answered Swain, positively. "Then I give it up," said Godfrey, and lay back in his chair. There was a queer boiling of ideas in my mind; ideas difficult to clothe with words, and composed of I know not what farrago of occultism, mysticism, and Oriental magic; but at last I managed to simmer them down to a timid question: "I know it sounds foolish, but wouldn't it be possible, Godfrey, to explain all this by hypnosis, or occult influence, or something of that sort?" Godfrey turned and looked at me. "Silva seems to have impressed you," he said. "He has. But isn't such an explanation possible?" "I don't think so. I don't deny that the Orientals have gone farther along certain paths of psychology than we have, but as to their possessing any occult power, it is, in my opinion, all bosh. As for hypnosis, the best authorities agree that no man can be hypnotised to do a thing which, in his normal condition, would be profoundly repugnant to him. Indeed, few men can be hypnotised against their will. To be hypnotised, you have to yield yourself. Of course, the more you yield yourself, the weaker you grow, but that doesn't apply to Swain. I shouldn't advise you to use that line of argument to a jury," he added, with a smile. "You'd better just leave the whole thing up in the air." "Well," I said, "I'll make the best fight I can. I was hoping Swain could help me; since he can't, we'll have to trust to luck." Godfrey left us to get his story of the morning hearing into shape, and I fell into a gloomy revery. I could see no way out of the maze; either Swain had touched Vaughan's body, or it had been touched by another man with the same finger-markings. I sat suddenly upright, for if there was such a man, he must be one of two.... "What is it?" Swain asked, looking at me. "A long shot," I said. "An exceedingly long shot—a three-hundred-million to one shot. How many people are there in the world, Swain?" "I'm sure I don't know," and he stared at me in bewilderment. "I think it's something like a billion and a half. If that is true, then it's possible that there are four people in the world, beside yourself, with the thumb and two fingers of the right hand marked exactly as yours are." "We must have a reunion, some day," Swain remarked, with irony. But I refused to be diverted. "Allowing for imperceptible differences," I went on, "I think it is safe to assume that there are ten such people." "Well," said Swain, bitterly, "I know one thing that it isn't safe to assume, and that is that either of those Hindus is one of those ten. I suppose that is the assumption you will make next?" "It's an assumption I intend to put to the proof, anyway," I answered, somewhat testily, "and if it fails, I'm afraid you'll have to go to jail till I can dig up some more evidence." He turned toward me quickly, his face working. "See here, Mr. Lester," he said, "don't misunderstand me. I'm awfully grateful for all you're doing for me; but I don't mind going to jail—not on my own account. I'm innocent, and I'll be able to prove it in time. But Marjorie mustn't be left alone. I'd be ready to face anything if I knew that she was safe. She mustn't be left in that house—not a single night. Promise me that you'll take her with you as soon as the inquest's over!" "I'll promise that, Swain, gladly," I said, "provided, of course, the doctor consents." "We must get him," and Swain sprang to his feet. "We must explain to him how important it is." "Perhaps I can get him on the 'phone," I said; but the person who answered told me that he had already started for the inquest. And, a moment later, Mrs. Hargis tapped at the door of the study and said that the doctor was outside. I told her to show him in at once. "The truth is," said Hinman, shaking hands with both of us, "I thought I'd drop in to find out if there was anything I could do. No reasonable person," he went on, turning to Swain, "believes you killed that defenceless old man; but those finger-prints certainly do puzzle me." "They puzzle me, too," said Swain; "but I'll prove my innocence—though it will take time." "It looks to me," said the doctor, slowly, "that about the only way you can prove your innocence is to catch the real murderer." "That's exactly what we're going to try to do," I assented. "And meanwhile Mr. Swain will be in jail?" asked the doctor. "I'm afraid there's no help for it," I admitted ruefully. "I was just telling Mr. Lester that I didn't mind that," said Swain earnestly, "that I could stand anything, if I was only sure that Miss Vaughan was safe. She isn't safe in that house. Mr. Lester has arranged to place her with the family of his partner, Mr. Royce, where she will be properly taken care of. Is there any reason why she can't be taken there to-day?" The doctor considered for a moment. "Ordinarily," he said, at last, "I would advise that she be left where she is for a few days; but, under the circumstances, perhaps she would better be moved. You can get an easy-riding carriage—or a car will do, if you drive carefully. The nurses, will, of course, go along. The only thing is, she will probably wish to attend her father's funeral, which takes place to-morrow." Swain bit his lips nervously. "I have a horror of her staying in that house another night," he said; "but I hadn't thought of the funeral. There is one nurse on duty all the time, isn't there, doctor?" "Yes." "All right, then; we'll risk one night more. But you promise me that she shall be taken away immediately after the funeral?" "Yes," I said, "I promise." "And I," said the doctor. Then he looked at his watch. "It's time we were getting back," he added. He took us over in his car, and we found the jury, under the guidance of Simmonds, just coming out of the house, each member smoking a fat black cigar at the expense of the State. They had been viewing the body and the scene of the crime, but as they filed back into their seats, I noted that they seemed anything but depressed. The lunch had evidently been a good one. Sylvester was recalled to finish his testimony. He explained the system of curves and angles by which finger-prints are grouped and classified, and the various points of resemblance by which two prints could be proved to have been made by the same finger. There was, first of all, the general convolution, whether a flexure, a stria, a sinus, a spiral, a circle, or a whorl; there was, secondly, the number of ridges in the convolution; and there was, thirdly, the angles which these ridges made. If two prints agreed in all these details, their identity was certain. He then proceeded to show that the prints made that morning by Swain did so agree with the photographs of the prints on the garments. Finally the witness was turned over to me for cross-examination. "Mr. Sylvester," I began, "are you willing to assert that those finger-prints could have been made by no man in the world except Mr. Swain?" Sylvester hesitated, just as I hoped he would do. "No," he answered, at last, "I can't assert that, Mr. Lester. There may be three or four other men in the world with finger-prints like these. But the probabilities against any of these men having made these prints are very great. Besides, it is a thing easily proved—the number of persons who might have committed the crime is limited, and it is an easy thing to secure prints of their fingers." "That is what I was about to propose," I agreed. "I should like the finger-prints taken of every one who was in the house Thursday night." "Do I understand that your case stands or falls upon this point?" asked the coroner. "Your Honor," I answered, "my client cannot explain how the prints of his fingers, if they are his, came to be upon that robe. The one thing he is certain of is that they were not placed there by him. Not once, during the entire evening, was my client near enough to Mr. Vaughan to touch him; not once did he so far lose consciousness as to be unable to remember what occurred. We have racked our brains for an explanation, and the only possible one seems to be that the prints of the real murderer resemble those of my client. And when I say the real murderer," I added, "I do not necessarily mean one of the persons whom we know to have been in the house. Outside of these finger-prints, there has been absolutely no evidence introduced here to prove that the crime might not have been committed by some person unknown to us." "You can scarcely expect the jury to believe, however," Goldberger pointed out, "that this supposititious person had finger-tips like your client's." "No," I agreed, "I make no such assertion; my hope is that we shall soon have the prints of the real murderer; and when I say the real murderer," I added, looking at the jury, "I believe every one present understands who I mean." The coroner rapped sharply; but I had said what I wished to say, and sat down. The witnesses of the morning were ordered to be brought out. Sylvester arranged his ink-pad and sheets of paper. "It seems to me," remarked the coroner, with a smile, "that you and Mr. Godfrey would better register, too. You were within striking distance." "That is right," I agreed, and was the first to register; but Sylvester, after a glance at my prints, shook his head. "Your thumb is a left sinus," he said. "You're cleared, Mr. Lester." Godfrey came forward and registered, too, and after him the three servants. In each case, a shake of Sylvester's head told the result. Then Simmonds came from the house, with Silva and Mahbub after him, and the coroner explained to Silva what was wanted. I fancied that the yogi's brow contracted a little. "The registration of the fingers," he said, "of the foot or of the palm, is with us a religious ceremony, not to be lightly performed. By some, it is also held that the touch of ink, unless compounded by a priest of the temple according to a certain formula, is defiling; and, above all, it is impossible for a believer to permit such relics of himself to remain in the hands of an infidel." "The relics, as you call them," Goldberger explained, "won't need to remain in our hands. My expert here can tell in a minute whether your prints resemble those of his photographs. If they do not, they will be returned to you." "And if they do?" Goldberger laughed. "Well, you can have them back, anyway. In that case, I guess we can persuade you, later on, to make another set." The yogi flushed angrily, but controlled himself. "I rely upon your promise, sir," he said, and laid his fingers first upon the pad and then upon the paper. He stood with closed eyes and moving lips, his inked fingers held carefully away from him, during the breathless moment that Sylvester bent above the prints. Then the expert looked up and shook his head. "No resemblance at all," he said, and held out the sheet of paper on which the prints were. Silva accepted it silently, and rolled it into a ball in the palm of his hand. "Now for the other fellow," said Goldberger. Silva glanced at his follower doubtfully. "I am not sure that I can make him understand," he said, and for some moments talked energetically to Mahbub in a language which I suppose was Hindu. Mahbub listened, scowling fiercely, speaking a brief sentence now and then. "He would know," Silva asked, at last, turning to the coroner, "whether blood is a constituent of that ink." "It is a purely chemical compound," Sylvester explained. "There is no blood in it, nor any other animal matter." This was repeated to Mahbub, and, after some further hesitation, he advanced to the table. A moment later, Sylvester was bending above the prints. Then he looked up, his face red with astonishment, and motioned me to approach. "Look at that!" he said, and laid the prints before me. My heart was leaping with the hope that the incredible had happened; that here lay the clue to the mystery. But the first glance told me that such was not the case. The prints resembled Swain's not at all. And then, when I looked at them again, I perceived that they resembled no other prints which I had ever seen. For the prints of all ten fingers were exactly alike, and consisted, not of whorls and spirals, but of straight lines running right across the finger. Sylvester was staring at them in bewilderment. "These," he said, when he could find his voice, "are the most remarkable prints I ever saw." "Do they resemble those on the robe?" asked the coroner. "Not in the least." "Then that settles that point," said Goldberger, with what seemed to me a sigh of relief. "There is one thing, though," said Sylvester, eyeing Mahbub curiously; "I wish I knew the secret of these extraordinary prints." "I can tell it to you," said Silva, with a little smile. "It is not at all extraordinary. The system of finger-print identification has been in use among the Hindus for many centuries, and was adopted by the English courts in India nearly a hundred years ago, after every other method had failed. The caste of Thuggee, which was at war with all other castes, and especially at war with the English, evaded it by stimulating on the fingers of their male children the formation of these artificial ridges. It became a sacred rite, performed by the priests, and has been maintained by the more devout members of the caste, although the need for it has ceased." Sylvester looked at the prints again. "I should like to keep these," he said. "They would be a great addition to my collection." Silva bowed. "Mahbub will have no objection," he said. "To him, they are of no importance, since there are many hundreds of men in the world with finger-tips identical with his. That is all?" Goldberger nodded, and the two strange figures walked slowly away toward the house. <hr style='width: 65%;' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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