"He used his left hand, all right," said Coquenil, "and, sapristi, he had sharp nails!"
"Parbleu!" mumbled the shrimp.
"Here over the cheek bone is the mark of his first finger. And here, in front of the ear, is his second finger, and here is his third finger, just behind the ear, and here, way down on the neck, is his little finger. Lord of heaven, what a reach! Let's see if I can put my fingers on these marks. There's the thumb, there's the first finger—stand still, I won't hurt you! There's the second finger, and the third, and—look at that, see that mark of the little finger nail. I've got long fingers myself, but I can't come within an inch of it. You try."
"'Stand still, I won't hurt you.'"
Patiently the photographer stood still while the commissary and Tignol tried to stretch their fingers over the red marks that scarred his countenance. And neither of them succeeded. They could cover all the marks except that of the little finger, which was quite beyond their reach.
"He has a very long little finger," remarked the commissary, and, in an instant, Coquenil remembered Alice's words that day as she looked at his plaster casts.
A very long little finger! Here it was! One that must equal the length of that famous seventeenth-century criminal's little finger in his collection. But this man was living! He had brought back Kittredge's boots! He was left-handed! He had a very long little finger! And Alice knew such a man!