is hand. Pope reached and snatched the
photos. He ran over them with widening eyes. He sorted them into two
piles upon the table.

"Five prints!" he announced, glancing at Drew with a sly smile. "Five
of these prints are the same as your set. In other words, the man who
made the impressions in the telephone-booth was also in the library at
or about the time of the murder!"

"Impossible!" snorted Fosdick.

"Ah!" said Drew. "Photos don't lie. Now we're getting there! That's the
first light I've seen in some time. It clears the case of the
supernatural. It puts it where it belongs--in the material world of
flesh and blood and hate and revenge."

"It does that!" corroborated the expert, siding with Drew. "Now," he
added good-naturedly, "I'll help out some more. I've got a book of
notations made in the library. I spent two hours there this morning. I
flashed every print I could see. There's some of the butler on the
bottle and the tray. There's a number on the polished table. There are
at least six on the door knob, to say nothing of the smashed panel. I
suppose yours is among them, inspector?"

Drew held out his right hand. "Look and see," he suggested with a short
laugh. "I've never been printed in my life."

"That won't be necessary. These three prints which correspond with the
ones you took in the booth, settle the matter. There's no record of
this fellow in our cabinet. But--he was in that library!"

"Where did he leave his prints?" asked Drew.

Pope consulted a page of his note book. He thumbed over another page,
thrust his finger between the sheet and turned to the photos. "What's
the number on the back of that one?" he asked, nodding toward the
topmost photograph.

"Ten," said Drew, turning it over and studying a penciled number.

"Ten," repeated the expert. "That is a print which was flashed on the
corner of the little table which was overturned when Stockbridge fell
to the floor after being shot."

"And the same man made it who made my prints in the booth?"

"The same!" declared the expert dryly.

"I don't see where you two are getting," said Fosdick. "How could a man
get into that library, shoot the old millionaire, get out again and go
over to a slot-booth?"

"He might have been in the slot-booth first," suggested Drew with slow
smiling. "From the booth he went to the house and killed Stockbridge."

"The fact is established," exclaimed Pope, "that the man you are after
was in the library and in