Stone had taken up the camera once more. His sole answer was a grunt upon which his hearers placed two distinct interpretations—Lanyard's affording him considerable gratification.
"If you're ready," said Stone—"now."
Mr. Blensop squinted unbecomingly and pressed the trigger. A vivid flare lifted from the pan of the pistol, and winked out in a cloud of vapour, slowly dissipating.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, sir—that's all of that." Stone stowed the camera away about his person and from another cranny produced a small cardboard box of glass slides, one of which he offered. "Now if you'll just run your fingers through your hair and rest them on this slide, light but steady. …"
"What for?" Blensop demanded with a giggle of nervous reluctance. "You don't think I'm the thief, do you?"
"No, sir, I don't. But if I haven't got your fingerprints, how am I going to tell them from the thief's?"
"Oh, I see," Blensop said with a note of allayed apprehension, and put himself on record.
The door opening to admit Colonel Stanistreet, Lanyard rose. At sight of him the Englishman checked and stared enquiringly, his eyes shadowed by careworn brows; for it was apparent that, if the events of the night had not depressed the spirits of the secretary, his employer had known little sleep or none since the burglary.
"Colonel Stanistreet," Blensop said melodiously, abandoning Stone to his unsupervised devices, "this is
