“What do you make out, Jervis?” my colleague asked.
“Oval corpuscles with distinct nuclei,” I answered.
“Ah,” said Thorndyke, “that will be good hearing for some poor devil. Have you measured them?”
“Yes. Long diameter 1/2100 of an inch; short diameter about 1/3400.”
Thorndyke reached down an indexed note-book from a shelf of reference volumes and consulted a table of histological measurements.
“That would seem to be the blood of a pheasant, then, or it might, more probably, be that of a common fowl.” He applied his eye to the microscope and, fitting in the eye-piece micrometer, verified my measurements. He was thus employed when a sharp tap was heard on the outer door, and rising to open it he admitted the superintendent.
“I see you are at work on my little problem, doctor,” said the latter, glancing at the microscope. “What do you make of that stain?”
“It is the blood of a bird—probably a pheasant, or perhaps a common fowl.”
The superintendent slapped his thigh. “Well, I’m hanged!” he exclaimed. “You’re a regular wizard, doctor, that’s what you are. The fellow said he got that stain through handling a wounded pheasant and here are you able to tell us yes or no without a hint from us to help you. Well, you’ve done my little job for me, sir, and I’m much obliged to you; now I’ll carry out my part of the bargain.” He opened a handbag and drew forth a wooden frame and a blue foolscap envelope and laid them with extreme care on the table.
“There you are, sir,” said he, pointing to the frame; “you will find Mr. Belfield’s trademark very neatly executed, and in the envelope is the finger-print sheet for comparison.”