rry Bernard. The moment Harry laid his
hand against the print on the handkerchief the detective made a
startling discovery. Not only did the hand of Harry Bernard fit the
bloody stain exactly, but a large wart near the knuckle of the little
finger fell exactly against the spot that dotted the center of the
white circle.

A feeling of unutterable horror filled the mind of Dyke Darrel at that
moment. Harry Bernard had been his friend for years, and he had always
found him upright and true.

But what meant this horrible revelation of the handkerchief?

Could it be possible that another had the same-sized hand and a wart
near the knuckle of the little finger? It was not likely.

Dyke Darrel came to his feet, with cold perspiration oozing out upon
his brow. Before him sat Harry Bernard, smiling gently, and yet he had
a devil in his heart--THE DEVIL OF ASSASSINATION!

CHAPTER VIII.

A PLUNGE TO DEATH.

For some moments neither man spoke. Harry Bernard noticed that his
friend was deeply moved, and he seemed to wonder at the cause. At
length he said:

"Dyke, what is it?"

"Nothing, only---"

"Well, speak out," as the detective hesitated.

"It is strange that your hand should so exactly fit the marks on the
handkerchief, Harry."

"Well, yes," admitted the youth; "I hope you didn't imagine, however,
that _I_ had a hand in this railway robbery and murder?"

At the last Harry Bernard laughed lightly. Dyke Darrel did not seem to
relish the young fellow's lightness, and only frowned.

"This is not a laughing matter, Harry Bernard," said the detective,
sternly.

"Well I should say not. If you have a serious thought that I could do
such a deed, Dyke, place me under arrest at once."

There was an expression of rebuke on the face of Bernard as he uttered
the last words. He did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and
after a moment Dyke Darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions.

"Never mind, Harry, I could not help feeling shocked. Let it pass; I
will not wrong you by suspicion. But you will admit that it was a
strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly."

"Not at all. Put your own hand here," returned Bernard.

Dyke Darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as Harry's. It was
not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so
startled the detective. Harry had not discovered the true cause of his
friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about
it then.

Tim