The expert rose as they entered. "Well?" he asked with arching brows and a slight frown on his face. "Well, what is it?" Drew pointed a finger as steady as a rifle. He bared his eyes into Pope's own. "Were you up to Stockbridge's house?" he asked swiftly. "Yes! Why?" "Did you take prints and photos of everything in the library? I understand that this was done after I turned the case over to Commissioner Fosdick." "It was done!" rasped Fosdick. "Of course it was done. It's always done when a case looks like a homicide!" "This case looked worse than that!" said Drew. "It was slaughter!" The commissioner turned to the fingerprint man. "Where are the prints and photos you took up at the house?" he asked. "Still in the developing room." "Do you think they are developed?" "I'll soon know, sir," he answered, pressing a button. The messenger entered who had attended to Drew's prints which the detective took in the telephone-booth. "Get down to the developing room," ordered Pope. "Get me all the prints and positives of Exhibit 12 of the Stockbridge case. Bring what is already developed. Tell them to rush the others." The three men waited in silence for the return of the messenger. Drew paced the floor thoughtfully. He clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back. He had almost slipped in an important matter. It was a chance he was taking, but a vital one in the case. The fingerprints taken by the expert in the library might and might not jibe with those taken in the slot-booth. If they were the same, or any one was the same, the case would offer a new line for investigation. A sliding footstep at the door announced the messenger. He held a sheath of curling papers in his hand. Pope reached and snatched the photos. He ran over them with widening eyes. He sorted them into two piles upon the table. "Five prints!" he announced, glancing at Drew with a sly smile. "Five of these prints are the same as your set. In other words, the man who made the impressions in the telephone-booth was also in the library at or about the time of the murder!" "Impossible!" snorted Fosdick. "Ah!" said Drew. "Photos don't lie. Now we're getting there! That's the first light I've seen in some time. It clears the case of the supernatural. It puts it where it belongs--in the material world of flesh and blood and hate and revenge." "It does that!" corroborated the expert, siding with Drew. "Now," he added good-naturedly, "I'll help out some more. I've got a book of notations made in the library. I spent two hours there this morning. I flashed every print I could see. There's some of the butler on the bottle and the tray. There's a number on the polished table. There are at least six on the door knob, to say nothing of the smashed panel. I suppose yours is among them, inspector?" Drew held out his right hand. "Look and see," he suggested with a short laugh. "I've never been printed in my life."