As a matter of principle, I fingerprinted all those who had a valid reason to visit the Herne house. Figg cursed when I begged him to apply his fingers to the ink pad, but he finally gave in. Housekeeper—who told me that she never cleaned the dresser drawers which, according to Cay, were searched—butler, lawyer, a clerk from the corner grocer; all gave me their fingerprints without quibbling—we don’t talk when Mr Cay orders.
“The result is convincing: there are some pretty nice ridge patterns that don’t belong to anyone on the surveys. Although it’s not certain that these correspond to the one who had sneaked into Mr Cay’s house, I’ll believe in our good luck.”
Figg is happy and... proud. Yes, it is indeed pride that I read in the look he gives me when I inform him of the repercussions o
