Baddeley cut him short. Lowering his voice considerably he leaned right across the table, and something in his persistence compelled Hornby to listen attentively. “You will remember, Major, that Mr. Prescott besides having been strangled—had been stabbed at the base of the neck with a dagger—known to Sir Charles Considine, your late host, and to his intimates, as the Venetian dagger?”
Major Hornby showed signs of assent. The Inspector proceeded. “That dagger was prepared and photographed on my instructions, immediately after I first arrived on the scene, and on the result showed a distinct set of finger-marks.” His companion began to show evidence of interest. “Now, Major,” and here Baddeley grew grave, “I made it my business to obtain a set of finger-prints of the various people I encountered in the house”—he was studying Hornby very carefully now—“and I have compared the incriminating set with the specimens I managed to obtain.” He paused.
“I’m all attention, Inspector,” said the Major. “And you discovered——?”
“That the finger-prints were yours—Major Hornby.”
“Really, Inspector—now that’s most interesting—when are you going to arrest me?”
Baddeley waved the sarcasm on one side. “Can you explain what I have just told you?”
Hornby pulled at his top lip, thoughtfully.
“Quite easily to a point,” he said. He looked at the Inspector, who showed no sign. Hornby went on. “I held that dagger in my hand on the evening before Prescott was murdered.”
“What were the circumstances?”
The Major smiled. “Nothing suspicious. After dinner that evening, we were talking about crime——”