The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK ®. R. Austin Freeman

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СКАЧАТЬ said he, “two blood-marks and a print, apparently of a thumb. Of the two marks, one is a blot, smeared slightly by a finger or thumb; the other is a smear only. Both were evidently produced with quite liquid blood. The thumb-print was also made with liquid blood.”

      “You are quite sure that the thumb-print was made with liquid blood?”

      “Quite sure.”

      “Is there anything unusual about the thumb-print?”

      “Yes. It is extraordinarily clear and distinct. I have made a great number of trials and have endeavoured to obtain the clearest prints possible with fresh blood; but none of my prints are nearly as distinct as this one.”

      Here the witness produced a number of sheets of paper, each of which was covered with the prints of bloody fingers, and compared them with the memorandum slip.

      The papers were handed to the judge for his inspection, and Anstey sat down, when Sir Hector Trumpler rose, with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face, to cross-examine.

      “You say that the blood found in the safe was defibrinated or artificially treated. What inference do you draw from that fact?”

      “I infer that it was not dropped from a bleeding wound.”

      “Can you form any idea how such blood should have got into the safe?”

      “None whatever.”

      “You say that the thumb-print is a remarkably distinct one. What conclusion do you draw from that?”

      “I do not draw any conclusion. I cannot account for its distinctness at all.”

      The learned counsel sat down with rather a baffled air, and I observed a faint smile spread over the countenance of my colleague.

      “Arabella Hornby.”

      A muffled whimpering from my neighbour on the left hand was accompanied by a wild rustling of silk. Glancing at Mrs. Hornby, I saw her stagger from the bench, shaking like a jelly, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief and grasping her open purse. She entered the witness-box, and, having gazed wildly round the court, began to search the multitudinous compartments of her purse.

      “The evidence you shall give,” sang out the usher—whereat Mrs. Hornby paused in her search and stared at him apprehensively—“to the court and jury sworn, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar shall be the truth,—”

      “Certainly,” said Mrs. Hornby stiffly, “I—”

      “—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; so help you God!”

      He held out the Testament, which she took from him with a trembling hand and forthwith dropped with a resounding bang on to the floor of the witness-box, diving after it with such precipitancy that her bonnet jammed violently against the rail of the box.

      She disappeared from view for a moment, and then rose from the depths with a purple face and her bonnet flattened and cocked over one ear like an artillery-man’s forage cap.

      “Kiss the Book, if you please,” said the usher, suppressing a grin by an heroic effort, as Mrs. Hornby, encumbered by her purse, her handkerchief and the Testament, struggled to unfasten her bonnet-strings. She clawed frantically at her bonnet, and, having dusted the Testament with her handkerchief, kissed it tenderly and laid it on the rail of the box, whence it fell instantly on to the floor of the court.

      “I am really very sorry!” exclaimed Mrs. Hornby, leaning over the rail to address the usher as he stooped to pick up the Book, and discharging on to his back a stream of coins, buttons and folded bills from her open purse; “you will think me very awkward, I’m afraid.”

      She mopped her face and replaced her bonnet rakishly on one side, as Anstey rose and passed a small red book across to her.

      “Kindly look at that book, Mrs. Hornby.”

      “I’d rather not,” said she, with a gesture of repugnance. “It is associated with matters of so extremely disagreeable a character—”

      “Do you recognise it?”

      “Do I recognise it! How can you ask me such a question when you must know—”

      “Answer the question,” interposed the judge. “Do you or do you not recognise the book in your hand?”

      “Of course I recognise it. How could I fail to—”

      “Then say so,” said the judge.

      “I have said so,” retorted Mrs. Hornby indignantly.

      The judge nodded to Anstey, who then continued—“It is called a ‘Thumbograph,’ I believe.”

      “Yes: the name ‘Thumbograph’ is printed on the cover, so I suppose that is what it is called.”

      “Will you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?”

      For one moment Mrs. Hornby stared wildly at her interrogator; then she snatched a paper from her purse, unfolded it, gazed at it with an expression of dismay, and crumpled it up in the palm of her hand.

      “You are asked a question,” said the judge.

      “Oh! Yes,” said Mrs. Hornby. “The Committee of the Society—no, that is the wrong one—I mean Walter, you know—at least—”

      “I beg your pardon,” said Anstey, with polite gravity.

      “You were speaking of the committee of some society,” interposed the judge. “What society were you referring to?”

      Mrs. Hornby spread out the paper and, after a glance at it, replied—

      “The Society of Paralysed Idiots, your worship,” whereat a rumble of suppressed laughter arose from the gallery.

      “But what has that society to do with the ‘Thumbograph’?” inquired the judge.

      “Nothing, your worship. Nothing at all.”

      “Then why did you refer to it?”

      “I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hornby, wiping her eyes with the paper and then hastily exchanging it for her handkerchief.

      The judge took off his glasses and gazed at Mrs. Hornby with an expression of bewilderment. Then he turned to the counsel and said in a weary voice—“Proceed, if you please, Mr. Anstey.”

      “Can you tell us, Mrs. Hornby, how the ‘Thumbograph’ came into your possession?” said the latter in persuasive accents.

      “I thought it was Walter, and so did my niece, but Walter says it was not, and he ought to know, being young and having a most excellent memory, as I had myself when I was his age, and really, you know, it can’t possibly matter where I got the thing—”

      “But it does matter,” interrupted Anstey. “We wish particularly to know.”

      “If СКАЧАТЬ