“Of course,” I conceded. “I should have thought.”
“Let’s get on! Where were we?...
“(f) That Prescott appears to have crossed the rose-bed under the billiard room window some time between seven and his death.
“(g) That somebody else did, too—at some time after seven.
“(h) That the Venetian dagger or the poker found on the billiard room floor shows finger-prints.”
“What?” I yelled. “How the devil do you deduce that? You haven’t examined them! You haven’t looked at either of them enough to know that.”
He grinned. “William, my lad, you won’t always have me to hold your little hand. Didn’t you tumble to Baddeley’s game with the letter?”
“What letter?”
“The letter he asked us to identify. That was for finger-prints, old son ... he’d prepared it in the usual way ... he’s got excellent prints of you and me. And of the others.” He chuckled. “He had at least two letters he was handing round.”
“Why?” I asked.