“It does that!” corroborated the expert, siding with Drew. “Now,” he added good-naturedly, “I’ll help out some more. I’ve got a book of notations made in the library. I spent two hours there this morning. I flashed every print I could see. There’s some of the butler on the bottle and the tray. There’s a number on the polished table. There are at least six on the door knob, to say nothing of the smashed panel. I suppose yours is among them, inspector?”
Drew held out his right hand. “Look and see,” he suggested with a short laugh. “I’ve never been printed in my life.”
“That won’t be necessary. These three prints which correspond with the ones you took in the booth, settle the matter. There’s no record of this fellow in our cabinet. But—he was in that library!”
“Where did he leave his prints?” asked Drew.
Pope consulted a page of his note book. He thumbed over another page, thrust his finger between the sheet and turned to the photos. “What’s the number on the back of that one?” he asked, nodding toward the topmost photograph.
“Ten,” said Drew, turning it over and studying a penciled number.
“Ten,” repeated the expert. “That is a print which was flashed on the corner of the little table which was overturned when Stockbridge fell to the floor after being shot.”
“And the same man made it who made my prints in the booth?”
“The same!” declared the expert dryly.
“I don’t see where you two are getting,” said Fosdick. “How could a man get into that library, shoot the old millionaire, get out again and go over to a slot-booth?”