"Earlier this evening
Doctor Wells said that he had bolted it, when he had left it open--
purposely, as I now realize, in order that he might return later.
You may also recall that Doctor Wells took a scrap of paper from
Richard Fleming's hand and tried to conceal it--why did he do that?"
She paused for a second. Then she changed her tone a little.
"May I ask you to look at this?"
She displayed the piece of paper on which Doctor Wells had started
to write the prescription for her sleeping-powders--and now her
strategy with the doctor's bag and the soot Jack Bailey had got from
the fireplace stood revealed. A sharp, black imprint of a man's
right thumb--the Doctor's--stood out on the paper below the broken
line of writing. The Doctor had not noticed the staining of his
hand by the blackened bag handle, or, noticing, had thought nothing
of it--but the blackened bag handle had been a trap, and he had
left an indelible piece of evidence behind him. It now remained to
test the value of this evidence.
Miss Cornelia handed the paper to Anderson silently. But her eyes
were bright with pardonable vanity at the success of her little
piece of strategy.
"A thumb-print," muttered Anderson. "Whose is it?"
"Doctor Wells," said Miss Cornelia with what might have been a
little crow of triumph in anyone not a Van Gorder.
Anderson looked thoughtful. Then he felt in his pocket for a
magnifying glass, failed to find it, muttered, and took the reading
glass Miss Cornelia offered him.
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