“That’s so—and Belfield’s the right man—but what do you want of us, doctor?”
“I should like to see the piece of glass with the finger-prints on it, and the prison form, and take a photograph of each. And I should like to examine the room in which the murder took place—you have it locked up, I suppose?”
“Yes, we have the keys. Well, it’s all rather irregular, letting you see the things. Still, you’ve always played the game fairly with us, so we might stretch a point. Yes, I will. I’ll come back in an hour for your report and bring the glass and the form. I can’t let them go out of my custody, you know. I’ll be off now—no, thank you, not another drop.”
The superintendent caught up his hat and strode away, the personification of mental alertness and bodily vigour.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Thorndyke’s stolid calm changed instantaneously into feverish energy. Darting to the electric bell that rang into the laboratories above, he pressed the button while he gave me my directions.
“Have a look at that bloodstain, Jervis, while I am finishing with Belfield. Don’t wet it; scrape it into a drop of warm normal saline solution.”
I hastened to reach down the microscope and set out on the table the necessary apparatus and reagents, and, as I was thus occupied, a latch-key turned in the outer door and our invaluable helpmate, Polton, entered the room in his habitual silent, unobtrusive fashion.
“Let me have the finger-print apparatus, please, Polton,” said Thorndyke; “and have the copying camera ready by nine o’clock. I am expecting Mr. Miller with some documents.”
As his laboratory assistant departed, Thorndyke rapped at the office door.
“It’s all clear, Belfield,” he called; “you can come out.”