“You are a despicable hound,” said Jimmie Dale, through set lips.  “Here”—­he handed the revolver over to Carruthers—­“keep him covered, Carruthers.  You’re going to the chair for this, Clayton,” he said, in a fierce monotone.  “The chair!  You can’t send another there in your place—­this time.  Shall I draw you now—­true to life?  You’ve been grafting for years on every disreputable den in your district.  Metzer was going to show you up; and so, Metzer being in the road, you removed him.  And you seized on the fact of Stace Morse having paid a visit to him this afternoon to fix the crime on—­Stace Morse.  Proofs?  Oh, yes, I know you’ve manufactured proofs enough to convict him—­if there weren’t stronger proofs to convict you.”

“Convict me!” Clayton’s lower jaw hung loosely; but still he made an effort at bluster.  “You haven’t a thing on me—­not a thing—­not a thing.”

Jimmie Dale smiled again—­unpleasantly.

“You are quite wrong, Clayton.  See—­here.”  He took a sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk.

Clayton reached for it quickly.  “What is it?” he demanded.

Jimmie Dale drew it back out of reach.

“Just a minute,” he said softly.  “You remember, don’t you, that in the presence of Carruthers here, of myself, and of half a dozen reporters, you stated that you had been alone with Metzer in his room at three o’clock yesterday, and that it was you—­alone—­who found the body later on at nine o’clock?  Yes?  I mention this simply to show that from your own lips the evidence is complete that you had an opportunity to commit the crime.  Now you may look at this, Clayton.”  He handed over the sheet of paper.

Clayton took it, stared at it, turning it over from first one side to the other.  Then a sort of relief seemed to come to him and he gulped.

“Nothing but a damned piece of blank paper!” he mumbled.

Jimmie Dale reached over and took back the sheet.

“You’re wrong again, Clayton,” he said calmly.  “It was quite blank before I handed it to you—­but not now.  I noticed yesterday that your hands were generally moist.  I am sure they are more so now—­excitement, you know.  Carruthers, see that he doesn’t interrupt.”

From a drawer, Jimmie Dale took out a little black bottle, the notebook he had used the day before, and the photograph Carruthers had sent him.  On the sheet of paper Clayton had just handled, Jimmie Dale sprinkled a little powder from the bottle.

“Lampblack,” explained Jimmie Dale.  He shook the paper carefully, allowing the loose powder to fall on the desk blotter—­and held out the sheet toward Clayton.  “Rather neat, isn’t it?  A very good impression, too.  Your thumb print, Clayton.  Now don’t move.  You may look—­not touch.”  He laid the paper down on the desk in front of Clayton.  Beside it he placed the notebook, open at the sketch—­a black thumb print now upon it.  “You recall