and underneath them was written the signature "Reuben Hornby."
At this moment Thorndyke re-entered the room carrying the inked slab, which he laid on the table, and seating himself between the superintendent and me, addressed the former.
"Now, Miller, here are two thumb-prints made by a gentleman named Reuben Hornby. Just glance at the left one; it is a highly characteristic print."
"Yes," agreed Miller, "one could swear to that from memory, I should think."
"Then look at this." Thorndyke took the paper from the box and, unfolding it, handed it to the detective. It bore a pencilled inscription, and on it were two blood-smears and a very distinct thumb-print in blood. "What do you say to that thumb-print?"
"Why," answered Miller, "it's this one, of course; Reuben Hornby's left thumb."
"Wrong, my friend," said Thorndyke. "It was made by an ingenious gentleman named Walter Hornby (whom you followed from the Old Bailey and lost on Ludgate Hill); but not with his thumb."
"How, then?" demanded the superintendent incredulously.
"In this way." Thorndyke took the boxwood "pawn" from its receptacle and pressed its flat
