"I'm glad you've come," he said, addressing Kathleen directly, as she shrank back at sight of him. "That man there," pointing to Miller, "is Karl von Mueller, captain in the Secret Service." A low moan broke from Kathleen, and she looked anywhere but at Miller, who had stepped forward to stand between her and the pine table with its pathetic burden. "Von Mueller," continued Heinrich, "killed Sinclair Spencer." "I deny it," exclaimed Miller. "Lies won't help," retorted Heinrich. "Miss Whitney, did you not attempt to rub off with your handkerchief from Spencer's blood-stained shirt, Captain von Mueller's finger print?" The question from that source was unexpected. Twice Kathleen strove to answer. She cast an agonized look about the circle of men, but their set, stern faces gave her no help. "Yes," and the monosyllable was little more than a murmur. "Ah, take that down, Detective Mitchell," exclaimed Heinrich, triumphantly. "And von Mueller was in the house that night--do you deny it?" "No." Miller's clear voice did not falter nor did his gaze, and Mitchell, handcuffs in evidence, looked perplexedly at Chief Connor. The latter was watching Miller like a lynx, and the Secret Service operatives closed up in the entranceway--there was no chance to escape, handcuffs seemed unnecessary. The smile that crossed Heinrich's lips was cruel. "We will swing together, von Mueller," he said. "Turning state's evidence will not save you, you traitor!" With an effort he controlled his rage, and spoke more calmly, "Chief Connor, your informer last night stole Whitney's invention; besides admitting to me that he had it, he left these tell-tale finger prints"--his hand sought his pocket, but a quick jerk on the handcuffs stopped him. "Take it out yourself," he snarled to the operative next him, "inside pocket." His request was quickly complied with. "There, that tells the story; open it." Detective Mitchell bent eagerly forward and gazed at the sheet, then turned to Miller. "Let me see your hands," he directed. Obediently Miller held them palm uppermost, and the detective and Chief Connor examined the half-moon scar on the index finger of his right hand with minute care. "It tallies," exclaimed Mitchell. A cry from Kathleen broke the silence. Miller whitened as he heard it. "The evidence is conclusive, is it not?" mocked Heinrich. "If that dead woman could speak"--pointing to the table--"she would tell you how she saw the crime committed." "Suppose we take her mute testimony"--and with a swift movement Miller removed his coat. "Merciful God!" With eyes starting from his head Heinrich recoiled. "Mrs. Whitney! Why didn't she let me know she was coming down here?" "Ah, then she was in the habit of coming?"