Young men like
Swain, even when half-unconscious, don't murder old men by strangling
them with a piece of curtain-cord. To suppose that Swain did so would
be absurd, but for one thing--no, for two things."
"What are they?" she demanded.
"One is that the handkerchief which you had tied about his wrist was
found beside your father's chair--but it was not upon that the jury
made its finding."
"What was it, then?"
"It was this: Swain swore positively that at no time during the
evening had he touched your father."
"Yes, yes; and that was true. He could not have touched him."
"And yet," I went on slowly, "prints of Swain's blood-stained fingers
were found on your father's robe."
"But," she gasped, pulling her hands away from me and wringing them
together, "how could that be? That is impossible!"
"I should think so, too," I agreed, "if I had not seen the prints with
my own eyes."
"You are sure they were his--you are sure?"
"I am afraid there can be no doubt of it," and I told her how
Sylvester had proved it.
She listened motionless, mute, scarce-breathing, searching my face
with distended eyes. Then, suddenly, her face changed, she rose from
her chair, flew across the room, opened a book-case and pulled out a
bulky volume bound in vellum.
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