“Exactly,” interrupted Anstey.  “And you recollect quite clearly that your nephew Walter gave you the ‘Thumbograph’ on that occasion?”

“Oh, distinctly; though, you know, he is really my husband’s nephew—­”

“Yes.  And you are sure that he took the thumb-prints?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you are sure that you never saw the ‘Thumbograph’ before that?”

“Never.  How could I?  He hadn’t brought it.”

“Have you ever lent the ‘Thumbograph’ to anyone?”

“No, never.  No one has ever wanted to borrow it, because, you see—­”

“Has it never, at any time, gone out of your possession?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that; in fact, I have often thought, though I hate suspecting people, and I really don’t suspect anybody in particular, you know, but it certainly was very peculiar and I can’t explain it in any other way.  You see, I kept the ‘Thumbograph’ in a drawer in my writing table, and in the same drawer I used to keep my handkerchief-bag—­in fact I do still, and it is there at this very moment, for in my hurry and agitation, I forgot about it until we were in the cab, and then it was too late, because Mr. Lawley—­”

“Yes.  You kept it in a drawer with your handkerchief-bag.”

“That was what I said.  Well, when Mr. Hornby was staying at Brighton he wrote to ask me to go down for a week and bring Juliet—­Miss Gibson, you know—­with me.  So we went, and, just as we were starting, I sent Juliet to fetch my handkerchief-bag from the drawer, and I said to her, ’Perhaps we might take the thumb-book with us; it might come in useful on a wet day.’  So she went, and presently she came back and said that the ‘Thumbograph’ was not in the drawer.  Well, I was so surprised that I went back with her and looked myself, and sure enough the drawer was empty.  Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when we came home again, as soon as we got out of the cab, I gave Juliet my handkerchief-bag to put away, and presently she came running to me in a great state of excitement.  ‘Why, Auntie,’ she said,’ the “Thumbograph” is in the drawer; somebody must have been meddling with your writing table.’  I went with her to the drawer, and there, sure enough, was the ‘Thumbograph.’  Somebody must have taken it out and put it back while we were away.”

“Who could have had access to your writing table?”

“Oh, anybody, because, you see, the drawers were never locked.  We thought it must have been one of the servants.”

“Had anyone been to the house during your absence?”

“No.  Nobody, except, of course, my two nephews; and neither of them had touched it, because we asked them, and they both said they had not.”

“Thank you.”  Anstey sat down, and Mrs. Hornby having given another correcting twist to her bonnet, was about to step down from the box when Sir Hector rose and bestowed upon her an intimidating stare.

“You made some reference,” said he, “to a society—­the Society of Paralysed Idiots, I think, whatever that may be.  Now what caused you to make that reference?”