"Not even a finger-print has been left unobscured!" he exclaimed, finally, almost ready in disgust to give it up. "It is shameful—shameful," he muttered. "When will they learn to let things alone until some one comes who knows the scientific importance of little things! If only I could have been first on the job."
"There's the typewriter," suggested Leslie, trying to divert attention and smooth things over.
"Have you the letter?" asked Craig.
Leslie drew it eagerly from his pocket and unfolded it. Kennedy took it, spread it out and studied it a moment:
Honora:
Don't think I am a coward to do this, but things cannot go on as they have been going. It is no use. I cannot work it out. This is the only way. So I shall drop out. You will find my will in the safe. Good-by forever.
Vail.
Then Craig moved over and sat at the typewriter. Quickly he struck several keys, then made a hasty comparison of the note with what he had written.
"The 's' and the 'r' are out of alignment, the 'e' battered—in both," he concluded, hurriedly, as though merely confirming what he was already convinced of. "There are enough marks to identify the writing as having been done on this machine, all right. No, there's nothing in this note—except what is back of it, and we do not know that yet. Did Wilford write that letter, or was it written for him? It could hardly have been done voluntarily."
"It was in this desk chair that we found him sprawled—so," illustrated Doctor Leslie, dropping into the chair. Then, straightening up, he indicated the big flat-topped desk in the middle of the room. "The two glasses were on this desk—one of them here, the other over there."