d
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."

"It is a purely chemical compound," Sylvester explained. "There is no
blood in it, nor any other animal matter."

This wa