“More in it than meets the eye, eh?” Griffiths delivered this profound opinion with a prodigious amount of head shaking and brow knitting.
“Shouldn’t be surprised—but clear out now—here comes the Governor.”
Griffiths adjusted his chin-strap. “Right-O—I’ll come and see you later.”
“Did I hear you talking, Roper?” said Baddeley, as he entered. “Who was it?” As I am entirely indebted to Baddeley himself for the substance of this chapter, I can say with assurance that he mistook the constable’s voice for that of Fitch, Sir Charles Considine’s butler, hence this rather peremptory opening question—but he was a man who took very few chances—and his mind at this particular time was casting, as it were, backwards and forwards, to grasp any point that seemed of the slightest significance.
“Constable Griffiths, sir,” replied Roper. “He’s been to Lewes, as you know, sir, with the two prisoners and just got back. They’re pretty quiet, he says,” volunteered Roper in addition. “Dazed-like.”
“Humph!” grunted Baddeley. “Those photographs ready yet?”
“Just about, sir, I think.” Roper went to the window and brought them back. Then extracted them, one by one, from their frames.
Baddeley glanced quickly at the first two or three—those of Prescott’s dead body lying as we had found it.
“I want the finger-prints and the photo of those on the Venetian dagger,” he said impatiently. “I’m puzzled, Roper, the whole case puzzles me—I want to see if any of the prints we got on those interesting letters of yours correspond with those we originally spotted on the dagger.”
“Very good, sir,” murmured Roper. “There’s a beauty there of the dagger prints”—he handed it over to his superior—“the others won’t be very long.”