“Now, since talking with you,” Ned continued, “I have been up in the mountains. There I found a man using a typewriter. By the way, have you a machine here?”
“Certainly not,” was the angry reply.
“But you formerly used one here?”
“Never!” was the reply.
“That is strange,” Ned said, “for when I came in here not long ago I took the liberty of looking through some papers in your desk, for which I ask your pardon. Well, I discovered that the machine you used here carried a defective letter ‘c.’ It looked in the writing like an ‘o.’ The machine the man was using under the divide had the same defect. If you will observe the sheet you were examining a few moments ago, you will note the imperfect letter.”
Lemon’s teeth clinked together sharply, but he did not speak.
“When I came here last,” Ned continued, “you lay in an opium stupor on that couch. You had recently returned from a trip to Lake Kintla, where Emory was found dead. While in that section you visited a cavern on the eastern slope of the divide. There is where you used the typewriter taken from these rooms.”
“My son never learned the keyboard,” said the old gentleman, an angry snap in his eyes. “He has never found it necessary to earn money.”
Lemon turned to the old man and bowed, gratefully.
“When you lay on the couch that night,” Ned continued, “there was the smear of the typewriter on the middle finger of your left hand, close to the nail. I use a double keyboard machine myself, and sometimes smut my finger on the ribbon when I turn the platen. Some papers I chanced upon in the mountains bear the mark of a smudged hand. You are careless in using the machine. You even left a blue record ribbon in the cave headquarters where the dead man was found. That was my first valuable clue!”