“We’ve had a devil of a job getting it, Peter, but we’ve succeeded.” Before him was a small visiting-card, bearing the name of Jamieson Steele. In the very centre was a violet finger print. The finger print had not been visible to the naked eye until it had been treated with chemicals, and its present appearance was the result of the patient work of three of Scotland Yard’s greatest scientists. “Did you get the other?” said Peter. “There it is,” said the stout man, and pointed to a strip of cardboard bearing two black finger prints. Peter compared the two impressions. “Well,” he said, “at any rate, one of the mysteries is cleared up. How did you get this?” he asked pointing to the strip of cardboard bearing the two prints. “I called on him, and shook hands with him,” said the stout man with a smile. “He was horribly surprised and offended that I should take such a liberty. Then I handed him the strip of card. It was a little while later, when he put his hand on the blotting pad, that he discovered that his palm and finger-tips were black, and I think that he was the most astonished man I ever saw.” Peter smiled. “He didn’t guess that your hand would be carefully covered with lamp-black, I gather?” “Hardly,” said the fat man. Again Peter compared the two impressions. “There is no doubt at all about it,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Half-past twelve. Not a bad time, either. I’ll take Wilkins and Browne,” he said, “and get the thing over. It’s going to be a lot of trouble. Have you got the warrant?” The stout man opened the drawer of his desk and passed a sheet of paper across. Peter examined it. “Thank you,” he said simply. Lord Claythorpe was in his study taking a stiff whisky and soda when the detective was announced. “Well?” he said. “Have you found the person who stole the emerald necklace?” “No, my lord,” said Peter. “But I have found the man who shot Remington.” Lord Claythorpe’s face went ashen. “What do you mean?” he said hoarsely “What do you mean?” “I mean,” said Peter, “that I am going to take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say will be used in evidence against you.” IX At three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe, an inmate of a cell at Cannon Row, sent for Peter Dawes. Peter was ushered into the cell, and found that Claythorpe had recovered from the crushed and hopeless man he had left: he was now calm and normal. “I want to see you, Dawes,” he said, “to clear up a few matters which are on my conscience.” “Of course, you know,” said Peter, “that any statement you make----” “I know, I know,” said the other impatiently. “But I have this to say.” He paced the short cell, his hands gripped behind him. Presently he sat down at Peter’s side. “In the first place,” he said, “let me tell you that I killed Donald Remington. There’s a long story leading up to that killing, but I swear I had no intention of hurting him.”