the next
room. It was empty, but when she looked hastily up on the shelf there
was a bottle of white tablets and on a table a pad of note paper from
which a sheet had been torn.

She picked up the bottle gingerly. Who had touched it? Her mind was
working quickly. Somewhere she had read of finger prints and the
subject had interested her because the system had been introduced in
banks and she saw that it was going to become more and more important.

But how did they get them in a case like this? She had read of some
powder that adhered to the marks left by the sweat glands of the
fingers. There was the talcum powder. Perhaps it would do.

Quickly she shook the box gently over the glass. Then she blew it off
carefully.

Clear, sharp, distinct, there were the imprints of fingers!

But the paper. Talcum powder would not bring them out on that. It must
be something black.

A lead pencil! Eagerly she seized it and with, a little silver
pen-knife whittled off the wood. Scrape! scrape! until she had a neat
little pile of finely powdered graphite.

Then she poured it on the paper and taking the sheet daintily by the
edges, so that she would not mix her own finger prints with the others,
she rolled the powder back and forth. As she looked anxiously she could
see the little grains adhering to the paper.

A fine camel's hair brush lay on the table, for penciling. She took it
deftly. It made her think of that first time when she painted the
checks for Carlton. A lump came into her throat.

There they were, the second pair of telltale prints. But what tale did
they tell? Whose were they?

Her reading on finger prints had been very limited but, like everything
she did, to the point. She studied those before her, traced out as best
she could the loops, whorls, arches, and composites, even counted the
ridges on some of them. It was not so difficult, after all.

She stopped in an uptown branch of her brokers in one of the hotels.
The market was very quiet, and even the Rubber Syndicate seemed to be
marking time. As she went out she passed the telephone booths. Should
she call up Warrington? Would he misinterpret it? What if he did? She
was mistress of her own tongue. She need not say too much. Besides, if
she were going on a fishing expedition, a telephone line was as good as
any other--better than a visit.

"This is Mrs. Dunlap," she said directly.

"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Dunlap. I have been intending to call you up,