"One is that the handkerchief which you had tied about his wrist was found beside your father's chair—but it was not upon that the jury made its finding."
"What was it, then?"
"It was this: Swain swore positively that at no time during the evening had he touched your father."
"Yes, yes; and that was true. He could not have touched him."
"And yet," I went on slowly, "prints of Swain's blood-stained fingers were found on your father's robe."
"But," she gasped, pulling her hands away from me and wringing them together, "how could that be? That is impossible!"
"I should think so, too," I agreed, "if I had not seen the prints with my own eyes."
"You are sure they were his—you are sure?"
"I am afraid there can be no doubt of it," and I told her how Sylvester had proved it.
She listened motionless, mute, scarce-breathing, searching my face with distended eyes. Then, suddenly, her face changed, she rose from her chair, flew across the room, opened a book-case and pulled out a bulky volume bound in vellum. She turned the pages rapidly, giving each of them only a glance. Suddenly she stopped, and stared at a page, her face livid.