“Well,” replied Alington, “instead of clearing up the mystery surrounding the murders of Sprague and Berjet, the finger-prints on the dagger tend to complicate it—that is, if we are to assume that the prints were made by the valet’s murderer, and this, I am sure, all of you will agree with me in doing.”
“Well?” repeated Strange, who saw his last glimmer of hope growing dimmer and dimmer. “Who murdered the valet?”
“If the prints were made by the man I think they were,” said Alington slowly, as if to prolong the taste of his words, “the valet was murdered by Max Berjet.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE TERRIBLE FROG TAKES THE TRAIL.
Strange, at once perceiving the blank wall into which his inquiry had led him, sat down on the arm of a chair and sought to hide his discomfiture by biting a liberal sized chew from the plug of tarlike tobacco that he fished out of his trousers pocket.
He had, very naturally, believed that the solution of the mystery was to be found in the finger-prints on the dagger, and his sudden disillusionment annoyed and angered him. He felt himself baffled and, having a profound dislike for the little finger-print expert anyway, it incensed him to have to admit even momentary defeat at the latter’s hands, especially in the presence of his superior.
The major, however, accepted the exploding of his theory with equanimity.
“It is obviously impossible for the scientist to have had any direct hand in Sprague’s murder,” he observed, “if he himself was murdered at least ten or fifteen minutes before the doctor was. And even if we assume that he had an indirect hand in it, and the circumstances surrounding the several murders would seem to disprove this, there is his own death still to be accounted for.” He turned to the artist. “Mr. Deweese, did you know Max Berjet?”
Deweese shook his head.
“Never heard of him until tonight,” he declared.