“You can scarcely expect the jury to believe, however,” Goldberger pointed out, “that this supposititious person had finger-tips like your client’s.”

“No,” I agreed, “I make no such assertion; my hope is that we shall soon have the prints of the real murderer; and when I say the real murderer,” I added, looking at the jury, “I believe every one present understands who I mean.”

The coroner rapped sharply; but I had said what I wished to say, and sat down.  The witnesses of the morning were ordered to be brought out.  Sylvester arranged his ink-pad and sheets of paper.

“It seems to me,” remarked the coroner, with a smile, “that you and Mr. Godfrey would better register, too.  You were within striking distance.”

“That is right,” I agreed, and was the first to register; but Sylvester, after a glance at my prints, shook his head.

“Your thumb is a left sinus,” he said.  “You’re cleared, Mr. Lester.”

Godfrey came forward and registered, too, and after him the three servants.  In each case, a shake of Sylvester’s head told the result.

Then Simmonds came from the house, with Silva and Mahbub after him, and the coroner explained to Silva what was wanted.  I fancied that the yogi’s brow contracted a little.

“The registration of the fingers,” he said, “of the foot or of the palm, is with us a religious ceremony, not to be lightly performed.  By some, it is also held that the touch of ink, unless compounded by a priest of the temple according to a certain formula, is defiling; and, above all, it is impossible for a believer to permit such relics of himself to remain in the hands of an infidel.”

“The relics, as you call them,” Goldberger explained, “won’t need to remain in our hands.  My expert here can tell in a minute whether your prints resemble those of his photographs.  If they do not, they will be returned to you.”

“And if they do?”

Goldberger laughed.

“Well, you can have them back, anyway.  In that case, I guess we can persuade you, later on, to make another set.”

The yogi flushed angrily, but controlled himself.

“I rely upon your promise, sir,” he said, and laid his fingers first upon the pad and then upon the paper.

He stood with closed eyes and moving lips, his inked fingers held carefully away from him, during the breathless moment that Sylvester bent above the prints.  Then the expert looked up and shook his head.

“No resemblance at all,” he said, and held out the sheet of paper on which the prints were.

Silva accepted it silently, and rolled it into a ball in the palm of his hand.

“Now for the other fellow,” said Goldberger.

Silva glanced at his follower doubtfully.

“I am not sure that I can make him understand,” he said, and for some moments talked energetically to Mahbub in a language which I suppose was Hindu.  Mahbub listened, scowling fiercely, speaking a brief sentence now and then.  “He would know,” Silva asked, at last, turning to the coroner, “whether blood is a constituent of that ink.”