up sharply as he squeezed a drop from a tube of finger-print ink onto a smooth copper plate.
"Except that the murdered man, Caldwell, was a retired fence."
"A fence, was he?" said Thorndyke in a tone of interest.
"Yes; and I suspect he was a 'nark' too. He knew more than was wholesome for a good many."
"Did he know anything about you?"
"Yes; but nothing that the police don't know."
With a small roller Thorndyke spread the ink upon the plate into a thin film. Then he laid on the edge of the table a smooth white card and, taking Belfield's right hand, pressed the forefinger firmly but quickly, first on the inked plate and then on the card, leaving on the latter a clear print of the finger-tip. This process he repeated with the other fingers and thumb, and then took several additional prints of each.
"That was a nasty injury to your forefinger, Belfield," said Thorndyke, holding the finger to the light and examining the tip carefully. "How did you do it?"
"Stuck a tin-opener into it—a dirty one, too. It was bad for weeks; in fact, Dr. Sampson thought at one time that he would have to amputate the finger."
"How long ago was that?"
"Oh, nearly a year ago, sir."
