He laughed.  “Oh, Walter,” he remonstrated, “don’t you know that it is nearly always useless to look for finger-prints, except under some circumstances, even a few days afterward?  This is months, not days.  Why on iron and steel they last with tolerable certainty only a short time, and not much longer on silver, glass, or wood.  But they are seldom permanent unless they are made with ink or blood or something that leaves a more or less indelible mark.  That was a ‘plant.’”

“But what do you expect to gain by it?”

“Well,” he replied enigmatically, “no one is necessarily honest.”

It was late in the afternoon when Kennedy again visited the Godwin house and examined the camera.  Without a word he pulled the detectascope from the wall and carried the whole thing to the developing-room of the local photographer.

There he set to work on the film and I watched him in silence.  He seemed very much excited as he watched the film develop, until at last he held it up, dripping, to the red light.

“Some one has entered that room this afternoon and attempted to wipe off the walls and woodwork of that closet, as I expected,” he exclaimed.

“Who was it?” I asked, leaning over.

Kennedy said nothing, but pointed to a figure on the film.  I bent closer.  It was the figure of a woman.

“Miriam!” I exclaimed in surprise.

XXIV

THE FINAL DAY

I looked aghast at him.  If it had been either Bradford or Lambert, both of whom we had come to know since Kennedy had interested himself in the case, or even Hollins or Kilgore, I should not have been surprised.  But Miriam!

“How could she have any connection with the case?” I asked incredulously.

Kennedy did not attempt to explain.  “It is a fatal mistake, Walter, for a detective to assume that he knows what anybody would do in any given circumstances.  The only safe course for him is to find out what the persons in question did do.  People are always doing the unexpected.  This is a case of it, as you see.  I am merely trying to get back at facts.  Come; I think we might as well not stay over night, after all.  I should like to drop off on the way back to the city to see Mrs. Godwin.”

As we rode up the hill I was surprised to see that there was no one at the window, nor did any one seem to pay attention to our knocking at the door.

Kennedy turned the knob quickly and strode in.

Seated in a chair, as white as a wraith from the grave, was Mrs. Godwin, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Kennedy, leaping to her side and grasping her icy hand.

The stare on her face seemed to change slightly as she recognised him.

“Walter—­some water—­and a little brandy—­if there is any.  Tell me—­what has happened?”