Woodward, a trifle pained by this levity, gathered up the garments and put them away in the wardrobe.
"How's Bunter getting on with those calls?"
"No luck, at present."
"Oh!—well, he'd better come in now and do some photographs. We can finish the telephoning at home. Bunter!—Oh, and, I say, Woodward—d'you mind if we take your finger-prints?"
"Finger-prints, my lord?"
"Good God, you're not trying to fasten anything on Woodward?"
"Fasten what?"
"Well—I mean, I thought it was only burglars and people who had finger-prints taken."
"Not exactly. No—I want the General's finger-prints, really, to compare them with some others I got at the Club. There's a very fine set on that walking-stick of his, and I want Woodward's, just to make sure I'm not getting the two sets mixed up. I'd better take yours, too. It's just possible you might have handled the stick without noticing."
"Oh, I get you, Steve. I don't think I've touched the thing, but it's as well to make sure, as you say. Funny sort of business, what? Quite the Scotland Yard touch. How d'you do it?"