“No, it doesn’t seem like me.” Alma lifted her lovely little hands one after the other and scrutinized them with apparent interest. “No, I rarely have dirty hands. Even as a child, Merry says I was always tidy. But, Mr. Moore, I’m told that fingerprints cannot be mistaken, and so the fact remains, doesn’t it, that on that particular occasion my hands did need washing?” There was a certain something in Alma’s voice that drew my attention. She seemed to be speaking casually, seemed really indifferent as to the subject, yet her tone was alert and her whole manner tense. It was almost as if she was studying the effect of her words on Moore far more intently than he was studying her. Yet, this was absurd. Why should she fear him? She had already admitted and explained the fingerprints to March, who had expressed himself satisfied. “You went to the window, then, to raise it in order to let more air into the room?” “Yes.” “Didn’t it rain in?” “What?” the suddenness of her exclamation made me jump. “Yes,” Keeley went on, “there was a hard shower Tuesday afternoon, and it came from the east. It should have rained right in that window.” “Then it was before or after the shower,” Alma said, but she faltered a little. “For it certainly did not rain in.” “At what time were you there?” “I don’t remember exactly. After lunch and before tea time.” “You usually have afternoon tea, Miss Remsen?” “Yes. Merry, my nurse, is English and she enjoys it, so we’ve made it a habit. I’ve grown to like it.” “Then, you were doubtless at your uncle’s on Tuesday, sometime, say, between two o’clock and five.” “Yes, that must be right.” “You went and returned in your canoe?” “Yes.” “And it was not raining when you went, or when you came home, or when you opened that window?” “No.” “But, Miss Remsen, it is an established fact that it rained all that afternoon, from one till six o’clock. This is verified by the weather statistics.” Only for a moment did Alma look blank. Then she said, quickly: “Oh, really? Then I must be mistaken in the day. I must have been there Monday afternoon. The days fly by so swiftly in summer, I can hardly keep track of them.” “Perhaps,” said Kee, looking a bit baffled. “But another strange thing—Griscom says those fingerprints were not on the white paint Wednesday evening when he put the suite in order for the night. He says he would surely have seen them if they had been.” She gave a little light laugh. “Poor old Griscom. His eyes are not what they used to be, I daresay. Now, Mr. Moore, just what is it you want me to say? Am I proving an alibi? Or are you trying to trick me into a confession that I killed my uncle? Because, I didn’t, and though I may be hazy about the exact time of my last visit to him, I did go over there——” “And he did give you the satin waistcoats?” “Yes,” but now her eyelids quivered, “he did give me the satin waistcoats.” “And you did open that window?” “Yes,” she spoke slowly.