That Monday was one of the busiest days he
had ever spent in all the twenty-seven years of his life. He began,
rather strangely, by visiting half a dozen of Hamilton's hardware
stores, exhibiting a peculiar instrument and making annoying inquiries
as to when and to whom it had been sold. But at his sixth port of call
success so completely rewarded his efforts that he was jubilant when he
bade the mystified proprietor good day, a signed statement reposing in
his wallet.
Two other calls--both in office buildings--took up only an hour of his
time, and a taxicab delivered him at Police Headquarters just as the
factory whistles were sirening the news that it was twelve o'clock.
He was lucky enough to find the fingerprint expert, Carraway, in his
cubbyhole of an office, his desk almost crowded out by immense filing
cabinets.
Five minutes later Dundee sat at that desk, photographs of Dexter
Sprague's dead body, just as it had been discovered on the floor of the
trophy room in the Miles home, and a labelled set of fingerprints spread
out before him.
"You're sure there can have been no mistake?" he asked. "No chance that
these fingerprint photographs were _reversed_ when the prints were
made?"
"Not a chance--with my system!" Carraway retorted positively.
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