The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (black books to read .TXT) 📕

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 was repeated to Mahbub, and, after some further hesitation, he advanced to the table.

A moment later, Sylvester was bending above the prints. Then he looked up, his face red with astonishment, and motioned me to approach.

"Look at that!" he said, and laid the prints before me.

My heart was leaping with the hope that the incredible had happened; that here lay the clue to the mystery. But the first glance told me that such was not the case. The prints resembled Swain's not at all. And then, when I looked at them again, I perceived that they resembled no other prints which I had ever seen.

For the prints of all ten fingers were exactly alike, and consisted, not of whorls and spirals, but of straight lines running right across the finger. Sylvester was staring at them in bewilderment.

"These," he said, when he could find his voice, "are the most remarkable prints I ever saw."

"Do they resemble those on the robe?" asked the coroner.

"Not in the least."

"Then that settles that point," said Goldberger, with what seemed to me a sigh of relief.

"There is one thing, though," said Sylvester, eyeing Mahbub curiously; "I wish I knew the secret of these extraordinary prints."

"I can tell it to you," said Silva, with a little smile. "It is not at all extraordinary. The system of finger-print identification has been in use among the Hindus for many centuries, and was adopted by the English courts in India nearly a hundred years ago, after every other method had failed. The caste of Thuggee, which was at war with all other castes, and especially at war with the English, evaded it by stimulating on the fingers of their male children the formation of these artificial ridges. It became a sacred rite, performed by the priests, and has been maintained by the more devout members of the caste, although the need for it has ceased."

Sylvester looked at the prints again.

"I should like to keep these," he said. "They would be a great addition to my collection."

Silva bowed.

"Mahbub will have no objection," he said. "To him, they are of no importance, since there are many hundreds of men in the world with finger-tips identical with his. That is all?"

Goldberger nodded, and the two strange figures walked slowly away toward the house.

CHAPTER XVI MISS VAUGHAN'S STORY

Sylvester was still bending in ecstasy over those strange finger-prints—the absorbed ecstasy of the collector who has come unexpectedly upon a specimen wonderful and precious.

"Well," he said, looking up, at last, "I've learned something new to-day. These prints shall have the place of honour. They might not be a means of identification among the Thugs, but I'll wager there's no collection in America has a set like them! They're unique!"

"But not in the least like the photographs," put in Goldberger, drily.

"No," and Sylvester flushed a little as he felt himself jerked from his hobby. "None of the prints we have taken this afternoon resemble the photographs in any way."

"But those made by Mr. Swain do resemble them?"

"It is more than a resemblance. They are identical with them."

"What inference do you draw from that?"

"It is more than an inference," Sylvester retorted. "It is a certainty. I am willing to swear that the finger-prints on the robe worn by the murdered man were made by Frederic Swain."

"You realise the serious nature of this assertion?" asked the coroner, slowly.

"I realise it fully."

"And that realisation does not cause you to modify it in any way?"

"It cannot be modified," said Sylvester, firmly, "however serious it may be, however reluctant I may be to make it—it cannot be modified because it is the truth."

There was a moment's silence, then Goldberger turned to me.

"Have you any questions to ask the witness, Mr. Lester?"

"No," I answered; "I have none."

Sylvester bent again above his prints, while the coroner and the prosecutor held a brief consultation. Then Goldberger turned back to me.

"Have you anything further, Mr. Lester?" he asked. "Our evidence is all in, I believe."

I was driven to my last entrenchment.

"I should like to call Miss Vaughan," I said, "if Dr. Hinman thinks she is strong enough."

Swain's chair creaked as he swung toward me.

"No, no!" he whispered, angrily. "Don't do that! Spare her that!"

But I waved him away, for it was his honour and welfare I had to consider, not Miss Vaughan's convenience, and turned to Dr. Hinman, who was evidently struggling between two duties. One was his duty to his patient; the other his duty to a man cruelly threatened, whom his patient's testimony might save.

"Well, what do you say, doctor?" asked the coroner.

"Miss Vaughan is no doubt able to testify," said the doctor, slowly, "but I should like to spare her as much as possible. Couldn't her deposition be taken privately? I think you mentioned something of the sort."

Goldberger looked at me.

"I shall be satisfied," I said, "to question her in the presence of Mr. Goldberger, reserving the right to put her on the stand, should I deem it necessary to do so."

"Very well," agreed the doctor. "I will prepare her," and he hurried away toward the house.

Swain was gripping my arm savagely.

"See here, Mr. Lester," he said in my ear, his voice shaking with anger, "I'm in deadly earnest about this. Take Miss Vaughan's deposition if you wish, but under no circumstances shall she be hauled before this crowd, in her present condition, and compelled to testify."

"Why not?" I asked, surprised at his vehemence.

"Because, in the first place, her testimony can't help me; and, in the second place, I won't have her tortured."

"She wouldn't be tortured."

"Look around at these reporters and these photographers, and then tell me she wouldn't be tortured!"

"How do you know her evidence won't help you?"

"How can it?"

"It will confirm your story."

"Can it explain away the finger-prints?"

At the words, I suddenly realised that there was one person within striking distance of the murdered man whose prints we had not taken—his daughter. Not that they were necessary ...

Dr. Hinman appeared at the edge of the lawn and beckoned. As I arose from my chair, Swain gave my arm a last savage grip.

"Remember!" he said.

But I kept my lips closed. If Miss Vaughan really loved him, and could help him, I would not need to urge her to the stand!

Goldberger joined me and together we followed Hinman into the house and up the stairs. He opened the door at the stair-head, waited for us to precede him, followed us into the room, and closed the door gently.

Miss Vaughan was half-sitting, half-reclining in a large chair. The blinds were drawn and the room in semi-darkness, but even in that light I could see how changed she was from the girl of whom I had caught a glimpse two days before. Her face was dead white, as though every drop of blood had been drained from it; her eyes were heavy and puffed, as from much weeping, and it seemed to me that there still lingered in their depths a shadow of horror and shrinking fear.

"This is Mr. Goldberger," said the doctor, "and this is Mr. Lester."

She inclined her head to each of us, as we took the chairs the doctor drew up, and I fancied that her cheeks flushed a little as her eyes met mine.

"I have explained to Miss Vaughan," the doctor continued, "that an inquiry is in progress, as the law requires, to determine the manner of her father's death, and that her story of what happened that night is essential to it."

"It will, at least, be a great help to us," said Goldberger gently, and I saw how deeply the girl's delicate beauty appealed to him. It was a beauty which no pallor could disguise, and Goldberger's temperament was an impressionable one.

"I shall be glad to tell you all I know," said Miss Vaughan, "but I fear it will not help you much."

"Will you tell us something, first, of your father's mental state?" I suggested.

"For many years," she began, "father had been a student of mysticism, and until quite recently he remained merely a student. I mean by that that he approached the subject with a detached mind and with no interest in it except a scientific interest."

"I understand," I said. "And that has changed recently?"

"It has changed completely in the last few months. He became a disciple, a convert anxious to win other converts."

"A convert to what?"

"To Hinduism—to the worship of Siva."

"That is the cult to which Francisco Silva belongs?"

"Yes; he is a White Priest of Siva."

"And this change in your father has been since the coming of this man?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anything of him?"

"Only that he is a very wonderful man."

"You know nothing of his past?"

"No."

"Did your father wish you to become a convert?"

"Yes, he desired it deeply."

"A priestess of Siva, I believe it is called?"

"Yes."

"And the yogi also desired it?"

"He believed it would be a great destiny. But he urged it only for my father's sake."

"So you determined to appeal to Mr. Swain?"

The colour deepened in her cheeks again.

"I decided to ask his advice," she said.

"Please tell us what happened that evening."

"Mr. Swain met me at the arbour in the corner of the grounds, as I had asked him to, and convinced me that my father's mind had given way under his long study of the occult. We decided that he should be placed in a sanitarium where he could have proper attention, and Mr. Swain was to make the necessary arrangements. All I would have to do would be to sign some papers. We were just saying good-night, when my father appeared at the entrance of the arbour."

"This was about midnight, was it not?"

"Yes."

"Why did you choose that hour for the meeting?"

"Because at that hour my father and the yogi were always engaged in invoking an astral benediction."

Even I, who knew the significance of the words, paused a little at them. The doctor and Goldberger were hopelessly at sea. After all, the words were a very good description of the weird ceremony.

"Well," I said, "and after your father appeared, what happened?"

"He was very excited and spoke to Mr. Swain in a most violent manner. Mr. Swain attempted to take me away from him, not knowing, at first, who it was had seized me; but I pushed him back and led my father away toward the house."

"Did Mr. Swain touch your father?"

"No; I was between them all the time. I was determined that they should not touch each other. I was afraid, if they came together, that something terrible would happen."

Goldberger glanced at me.

"Something terrible to your father?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she answered, quickly; "Mr. Swain would not have harmed my father, but father did not know what he was doing and might have harmed Mr. Swain."

It was my turn to look at Goldberger.

"After you left the arbour," I asked, "did you see Mr. Swain again?"

"No, I did not see him again."

"You went straight