"And I tell you, Monsieur Bertillon, that I know that I am certain—positively certain, that Jacques Dollon is dead!... Now, then!..."
The man of science shook his head.
"I, in my turn, say, you are making a mistake! Look at the two imprints I have here! That of Jacques Dollon taken a few days ago, and this made from the impressions obtained this very night, or, to be exact, in the early morning hours of to-day! They are identical—one can be exactly superposed on the other!..."
"Coincidence!"
"There is no such coincidence possible—besides"—Monsieur Bertillon took up a powerful magnifying glass—"look at these characteristic details!... Just look at the lines of the thumb, all out of shape!... The presentment of the thumb itself is not normal either; it denotes habitual movement in a certain direction: it is the thumb of a painter, of a potter!... Oh, it is all as clear as daylight—believe me—there is no doubt about it! Jacques Dollon is the guilty person!"
"But," repeated Fandor obstinately: "Jacques Dollon is dead! I swear to you he is dead!..."
This assertion made no impression on the man of science.
"As to whether Jacques Dollon is alive or dead—that is for the police to decide!... For my part, I can declare that the man who committed the theft yesterday evening is the identical man who passed through my hands some days ago—and that man is certainly Jacques Dollon!"
Jérôme Fandor left Monsieur Bertillon. The young journalist was perplexed.... If the finger-prints on the neck of Princess Sonia Danidoff were, beyond dispute, those of Jacques Dollon—then the mystery surrounding this affair, and not this affair only, but a series of incidents, so far from being cleared up, was more impenetrable than ever!