pose you have two fingers?"

"Then it is absolutely certain."

"And three fingers?"

Sylvester shrugged his shoulders to indicate that proof could go no
further. Goldberger took back the photographs from the foreman of the
jury and ranged them before him on the table.

"Now, Mr. Sylvester," he said, "did you notice any correspondence
between these prints?"

"Yes," answered the witness, in a low voice; "the thumb-prints on both
robes were made by the same hand."

The audience sat spell-bound, staring, scarce breathing. I dared not
glance at Swain. I could not take my eyes from that pale-faced man on
the witness-stand, who knew that with every word he was riveting an
awful crime to a living fellow-being.

"One question more," said Goldberger. "Have you any way of telling by
whom these prints were made?"

"Yes," said Sylvester again, and his voice was so low I could scarcely
hear it. "They were made by Frederic Swain. The prints he made just
now correspond with them in every detail!"

CHAPTER XV

THE CHAIN TIGHTENS

An instant's silence followed Sylvester's words, and then a little
murmur of interest and excitement, as the reporters bent closer above
their work. I heard a quick, deep intaking of the breath from the man
who sat beside me, and then I was on my feet.

"Your Honour," I said to Goldberger, "it seems that an effort is to be
made to incriminate Mr. Swain in this affair, and he should therefore
be represented by counsel. I myself intend to represent him, and I ask
for an hour's adjournment in order to consult with my client."

Goldberger glanced at his watch.

"I intended to adjourn for lunch," he said, "as soon as I had finished
with Mr. Sylvester. We will adjourn now, if you wish--until
one-thirty," he added.

The battery of cameras was clicking at Swain, and two or three artists
were making sketches of his head; there was a great bustle as the
reporters gathered up their papers and hurried to their cars to search
for the nearest telephone; the jury walked heavily away in charge of
an officer to get their lunch at some near-by road-house; Sylvester
was gathering up his prints and photographs and putting them carefully
in his pocket; Simmonds was replacing the blood-stained clothing in
the suit-case, to be held as evidence for the trial; but Swain sat
there, with arms folded, staring straight before him, apparently
unconscious of all this.

Goldberger looked at him closely, as he cam