"Fie on you, Sergeant!" Vance made a half-hearted attempt at levity. "It's a bit too early to give way to such gloomy pessimism.—I take it that Captain Dubois found no finger-prints."
"Oh, he found finger-prints, all right—Ada's, and Rex's, and Sproot's, and a couple of the doctor's. But that don't get us anywheres."
"Where were the prints?"
"Everywhere—on the door-knobs, the centre-table, the window-panes; some were even found on the woodwork above the mantel."
"That last fact may prove interestin' some day, though it doesn't seem to mean much just now.—Anything more about the footprints?"
"Nope. I got Jerym's report late this afternoon; but it don't say anything new. The galoshes you found made the tracks."
"That reminds me, Sergeant. What did you do with the galoshes?"
Heath gave him a sly, exultant grin.
"Just exactly what you'd have done with 'em, Mr. Vance. Only—I thought of it first."
Vance smiled back.
"Salve! Yes, the idea entirely slipped my mind this morning. In fact, it only just occurred to me."
"May I know what was done with the galoshes?" interjected Markham impatiently.
"Why, the Sergeant returned them surreptitiously to the linen-closet, and placed them under the drugget whence they came."
"Right!" Heath nodded with satisfaction. "And I've got our new nurse keeping an eye on 'em. The minute they disappear she's to phone the Bureau."
