“Now while Dr. Jervis is finding us the print we want, I will run up to the laboratory for an inked slab.”
He handed me the little book and, as he left the room, I began to turn over the leaves—not without emotion, for it was this very “thumbograph” that first introduced me to my wife, as is related elsewhere—glancing at the various prints above the familiar names and marvelling afresh at the endless variations of pattern that they displayed. At length I came upon two thumb-prints of which one—the left—was marked by a longitudinal white line—evidently the trace of a scar; and underneath them was written the signature “Reuben Hornby.”
At this moment Thorndyke re-entered the room carrying the inked slab, which he laid on the table, and seating him self between the superintendent and me, addressed the former.
“Now, Miller, here are two thumb-prints made by a gentleman named Reuben Hornby. Just glance at the left one; it is a highly characteristic print.”
“Yes,” agreed Miller, “one could swear to that from memory, I should think.”
“Then look at this.” Thorndyke took the paper from the box and, unfolding it, handed it to the detective. It bore a pencilled inscription, and on it were two blood-smears and a very distinct thumb-print in blood. “What do you say to that thumb-print?”
“Why,” answered Miller, “it’s this one, of course; Reuben Hornby’s left thumb.”
“Wrong, my friend,” said Thorndyke. “It was made by an ingenious gentleman named Walter Hornby (whom you followed from the Old Bailey and lost on Ludgate Hill); but not with his thumb.”
“How, then?” demanded the superintendent incredulously.
“In this way.” Thorndyke took the boxwood “pawn” from its receptacle and pressed its flat base onto the inked slab; then lifted it and pressed it onto the back of a visiting-card, and again raised it; and now the card was marked by a very distinct thumb-print.