, she rose from
her chair, flew across the room, opened a book-case and pulled out a
bulky volume bound in vellum. She turned the pages rapidly, giving
each of them only a glance. Suddenly she stopped, and stared at a
page, her face livid.

"What is it?" I asked, and hastened to her.

"It is the book of finger-prints," she gasped. "A great many--oh, a
great many--my father collected and studied them for years. He
believed--I do not know what he believed."

She paused, struggling for breath.

"Well," I said; "what then?"

"Mr. Swain's was among them," she went on, in the merest whisper.
"They were here--page two hundred and thirty--see, there is an
index--'Swain, F., page two hundred and thirty.'"

She pointed at the entry with a shaking finger.

"Well," I said again, striving to understand, "what of it?"

"Look!" she whispered, holding the book toward me, "that page is no
longer there! It has been torn out!"

Then, with a convulsive shudder, she closed the book, thrust it back
into its place, and ran noiselessly to the door leading to the hall.
She swept back the curtain and looked out.

"Oh, is it you, Annie?" she said, and I saw the Irish maid standing
just outside. "I was about to call you. Please tell Henry to bring
those tables and chairs in from the lawn."

"Yes, ma'am," said the girl, and turned away.

Miss Vaughan stood looking after her for a moment, then dropped the
curtain and turned back again into the room. I saw that she had
mastered her emotion, but her face was still dead white.

As for me, my brain was whirling. What if Swain's finger-prints _were_
missing from the book? What connection could that have with the
blood-stains on the robe? What was the meaning of Miss Vaughan's
emotion? Who was it she had expected to find listening at the door? I
could only stare at her, and she smiled slightly as she saw my look.

"But what is it you suspect?" I stammered. "I don't see...."

"Neither do I," she broke in. "But I am trying to see--I am trying to
see!" and she wrung her hands together.

"The disappearance of the prints seems plain enough to me," said
Hinman, coming forward. "Mr. Vaughan no doubt tore them out himself,
when he took his violent dislike to Swain. The act would be
characteristic of a certain form of mania. Nobody else would have any
motive for destroying them; in fact, no one else would dare mutilate a
book he prized so highly."

Miss Vaughan seemed to breathe more freely,