“As you know,” Miss Cornelia went on, “I had a supplementary bolt placed on that terrace door today.” She nodded toward the door that gave access into the alcove from the terrace. “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. “Try this,” she said. “My whole case hangs on my conviction that that print and the one out there on the stair rail are the same.” He put down the paper and smiled at her ironically. “Your case!” he said. “You don’t really believe you need a detective at all, do you?” “I will only say that so far your views and mine have failed to coincide. If I am right about that fingerprint, then you may be right about my private opinion.” And on that he went out, rather grimly, paper and reading glass in hand, to make his comparison. It was then that Beresford came in, a new and slightly rigid Beresford, and crossed to her at once. “Miss Van Gorder,” he said, all the flippancy gone from his voice, “may I ask you to make an excuse and call your gardener here?” Dale started uncontrollably at the ominous words, but Miss Cornelia betrayed no emotion except in the increased rapidity of her knitting. “The gardener? Certainly, if you’ll touch that bell,” she said pleasantly. Beresford stalked to the bell and rang it. The three waited—Dale in an agony of suspense. The detective re-entered the room by the alcove stairs, his mien unfathomable by any of the anxious glances that sought him out at once. “It’s no good, Miss Van Gorder,” he said quietly. “The prints are not the same.”