"I have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle beneath, his shirt. "It's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of the thugs of Chicago." "I wasn't closely searched, I suppose. You and the boys were too close after them." "You give me too much credit, Dyke," returned Harry Bernard, modestly. "I've a question to ask." "Ask as many as you like." "Was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so startled you in the St. Louis hotel?" "Did I not so claim at the time?" "Perhaps; but wasn't there another coincidence that gave you reason to suspect me? "There might have been." "I thought so. It was the imprint of a large wart, such as this on the handkerchief, that made you look with suspicion upon me. Is it not so?" Harry held up his hand, so that a wart on the little finger was plainly revealed, and which, when he placed his hand against the tell-tale handkerchief, fitted the marks perfectly. "Forgive me, Harry," cried the detective, quickly. "I know now that it was only a remarkable duplicate; the wart belonged to another hand than yours. The print of the wart was also on the bosom of Arnold Nicholson's white shirt bosom, where a bloody hand had fallen. I made this discovery when I examined the body of my dead friend. Circumstantial evidence pointed to you, and yet I doubted--" "I understand," interrupted Harry. "My hand is indeed a duplicate of the assassin's. It is a wonder that I have not been arrested ere this by some of the detectives who are engaged in working up this case." "Why so?" "Because you are not the only one who made the discovery of the wart that adorned the hand of the assassin. A reporter got hold of the story and published it. Don't you remember?" "I haven't read the papers closely since the murder." "But I have, and so has the man who killed Nicholson." "Indeed?" "He soon learned that officers of the law were all looking for a man with a large wart on the second joint of the little finger of the right hand. This fact made him nervous, and one night he severed the wart, and flung it from him, since which time he has breathed easier." A low exclamation from the lips of Nell startled both men. CHAPTER XXVII. THE STORY OF A WART. "Nell, what is it?" questioned the surprised detective. Harry regarded the girl with a queer smile. Perhaps he knew what had brought the exclamation to the lips of Miss Darrel. "I know a man who has lost a wart," she said, slowly, a deepening pallor coming to her cheeks. "His name?" questioned Dyke Darrel, eagerly. But the girl did not immediately answer. It seemed that something moved her deeply. "Was it Professor Ruggles?" questioned Harry, in order to help the young girl out. "No," she said. "Who then?" "Harper Elliston!" A grave look chased the smile from the face of Harry Bernard.