The Paternoster Ruby | Page 9

idea that the hand was n't inured to hard labor, and that it was a rather long and slender one, it closed so powerfully upon the drippings that the pattern of little lines--the vermiculations which differentiate one man's hand from everybody else's--is merely a blur. As a wax impression of the murderer's hand it is not a success."
My audience seemed to be immensely interested.
But I was not yet through with the wax impression.
"One peculiarity is suggested, though: this is unmistakably the impress of a right hand, and the owner of the hand wore a broad ring on the second finger--an unusual place for a man to sport that sort of jewelry."
The third finger of Maillot's left hand was adorned with a modest signet ring, while the private secretary's abnormally long, bloodless digits bore no sign that they had ever been encircled by any ring at all.
The situation was serious enough, however; the imprint which I assumed to have been made by a ring was so blurred as to leave wide latitude for error respecting any deduction that I might make from it.
I gravely regarded young Maillot, and tried to picture him to myself in the role of a murderer, but was obliged to own that such a thing was exceedingly difficult to do. Still, all things are possible; and the next few minutes had to determine whether I should take him or Burke into custody--maybe both--or permit them to go about their business.
"Mr. Maillot," I said by and by, "I 'll tell you frankly: this business looks pretty bad for you and Burke--unless between you you can help me to place it in an entirely different light."
He paled, but met my level look steadily enough.
As I have already said, he was a good-looking chap, dark of hair, his eyes gray, and he possessed an honest, open countenance that stood a whole lot in his favor. He was tall, with a well-knit, athletic figure that made me fancy he had been an heroic member of his university football team.
But I have known just such men--steady, upright and governed by high standards of conduct--to become in the twinkling of an eye red-handed assassins.
Your man of lofty ideas and honor, in truth, is the more deeply sensible of injury and sometimes the easiest incensed. He is the more keenly hurt when his most sacred feelings are suddenly outraged. Finish off his equipment with a hot, passionate temper, and his resentment is likely to strike as blindly and as effectively as a bolt from a surcharged thunder-cloud. It is the motive that either palliates or makes the crime. A moment's previous reflection often stays the hand from a deed which a lifetime of after regret can not recall.
I could associate these possibilities with Maillot, and yet extend to him my sympathy; for controlling impulses are infinitely various and sometimes not to be held to account.
And so, too, could I have done with Burke, if he had betrayed one trait of a nature to inspire sympathy or engage my goodwill. Still, I meant not to be in the least influenced by my own feelings in the matter, nor do I now believe that I was; I determined to be as just and impartial as possible. Bear in mind that, as yet, I had been given no hint of possible motive.
After a bit Maillot said very soberly:
"The possibility of such a thing never for instant occurred to me; but--Swift--I suppose must meet it somehow."
"You 're beginning excellently," I returned sincerely. "That's the way to look at a thing of this kind. If you 'll not forget that I 'm inclined to be kindly disposed toward you, why, I dare say we can, between us, clear up whatever mystery there is in one-two-three order.
"For example, why you came here last night--your business with Mr. Page--when you tell me that perhaps--"
I stopped. Maillot's face had suddenly become a mirror of consternation.
"Good God, Swift!" he gasped, recoiling, "I--I can't do that!"
I promptly grew grave. And then, from the head of the stairs, came the slow, colorless voice of Alexander Burke.
"How about the Paternoster ruby, Mr. Maillot?" inquired he.
Maillot's hands closed spasmodically; his teeth clicked together; and he slewed round like a released spring.
Next instant, had it not been for the intervening stairs and Stodger's and my quick interposition of our bodies between the two men, matters certainly would have gone hard with the private secretary. Maillot's temper was like gunpowder; the quiet question seemed to sting him to an unreasonable fury.
"You--you spy! You dirty sneak!" he snarled viciously.
CHAPTER IV
THE RUBY
Unless I wanted affairs to get away from me entirely, it was high time to assume complete control of them, and immediately to abandon all temporizing measures.
I turned Maillot about without ceremony.
"Go with this man to the library, Stodger," I