"What is it?" I asked, and hastened to her.
"It is the book of finger-prints," she gasped. "A great many—oh, a great many—my father collected and studied them for years. He believed—I do not know what he believed."
She paused, struggling for breath.
"Well," I said; "what then?"
"Mr. Swain's was among them," she went on, in the merest whisper. "They were here—page two hundred and thirty—see, there is an index—'Swain, F., page two hundred and thirty.'"
She pointed at the entry with a shaking finger.
"Well," I said again, striving to understand, "what of it?"
"Look!" she whispered, holding the book toward me, "that page is no longer there! It has been torn out!"
Then, with a convulsive shudder, she closed the book, thrust it back into its place, and ran noiselessly to the door leading to the hall. She swept back the curtain and looked out.
"Oh, is it you, Annie?" she said, and I saw the Irish maid standing just outside. "I was about to call you. Please tell Henry to bring those tables and chairs in from the lawn."