rejoinder. "You have evidently forgotten the Hornby case—the case of the Red Thumb-mark, as the newspapers called it."
"I only heard part of it," replied Miller, "and I didn't really follow the evidence in that."
"Well, I will show you a relic of that case," said Thorndyke. He unlocked a cabinet and took from one of the shelves a small box labelled "Hornby," which, being opened, was seen to contain a folded paper, a little red-covered oblong book and what looked like a large boxwood pawn.
"This little book," Thorndyke continued, "is a 'thumbograph'—a sort of finger-print album—I dare say you know the kind of thing."
The superintendent nodded contemptuously at the little volume.
"Now while Dr. Jervis is finding us the print we want, I will run up to the laboratory for an inked slab."
He handed me the little book and, as he left the room, I began to turn over the leaves—not without emotion, for it was this very "thumbograph" that first introduced me to my wife, as is related elsewhere—glancing at the various prints above the familiar names and marvelling afresh at the endless variations of pattern that they displayed. At length I came upon two thumb-prints of which one—the left—was marked by a longitudinal white line—evidently the trace of a scar;
