The link which I had been so careful in preparing was already vanishing from my gaze, when of a sudden I said:
"I'll change my mind, Bain. I wonder if you have a lemon in the house?"
"I'll go to the kitchen and see if cook has one, sir," replied the old man, who, placing down the tray, left to do my bidding.
In an instant I sprang forward and seized the empty tumbler, handling it carefully. Swiftly, I tore a piece off the evening paper, and wrapping it around the glass, placed it in the pocket of my dinner jacket.
Then, going into the hall, I put on my overcoat and hat, and awaited Bain's return.
"I shan't want that lemon!" I cried to him as he came up from the lower regions. "Good-night, Bain!" and a few moments later I was in a taxi speeding towards Albemarle Street, with the evidence I wanted safe in my keeping.
That finger-prints remained on the polished surface of the glass I knew full well—the prints of my beloved's fingers.
But would they turn out to be the same as the fingers which had rested upon the glass-topped specimen-table in Digby's room?
Opening the door with my latch-key, I dashed upstairs, eager to put my evidence to the proof by means of the finely-powdered green chalk I had already secured—the same as that used by the police.
But on the threshold of my chambers Haines met me with a message—a message which caused me to halt breathless and staggered.