Adroitly D’Arnot led the conversation from point to point until the policeman had explained to the interested Tarzan many of the methods in vogue for apprehending and identifying criminals.
Not the least interesting to Tarzan was the part played by finger prints in this fascinating science.
“But of what value are these imprints,” asked Tarzan, “when, after a few years the lines upon the fingers are entirely changed by the wearing out of the old tissue and the growth of new?”
“The lines never change,” replied the official. “From infancy to senility the finger prints of an individual change only in size, except as injuries alter the loops and whorls. But if imprints have been taken of the thumb and four fingers of both hands one must needs lose all entirely to escape identification.”
“It is marvellous,” exclaimed D’Arnot. “I wonder what
the lines upon my own fingers may resemble.”
“We can soon see,” replied the police officer, and ringing a bell he summoned an assistant to whom he issued a few directions.
The man left the room, but presently returned with a little hard wood box which he placed on his superior’s desk.
“Now,” said the officer, “you shall have your finger prints in a second.”
He drew from the little case a square of plate glass, a little tube of thick ink, a rubber roller, and a few snowy white cards.
Squeezing a drop of ink onto the glass, he spread it back and forth with the rubber roller until the entire surface of the glass was covered to his satisfaction with a very thin and uniform layer of ink.
“Place the four fingers of your right hand upon the glass, thus,” he said to D’Arnot. “Now the thumb. That is right. Now place them in just the same position upon this card, here, no—a little to the right. We must leave room for the thumb and the fingers of the left hand. There, that’s it. Now the same with the left.”
“Come, Tarzan,” cried D’Arnot, “let’s see what your whorls look like.”
Tarzan complied readily, asking many questions of the officer during the operation.
“Do finger prints show racial characteristics?” he asked. “Could you determine, for example, solely from finger prints whether the subject was Negro or Caucasian?”
“I think not,” replied the officer, “although some claim that those of the negro are less complex.”
“Could the finger prints of an ape be detected from those of a man?”
“Probably, because the ape’s would be far simpler than those of the higher organism.”
“But a cross between an ape and a man might show the characteristics of either progenitor?” continued Tarzan.
“Yes, I should think likely,” responded the official; “but the science has not progressed sufficiently to render
it exact enough in such matters. I should hate to trust its findings further than to differentiate between individuals.
“There it is absolute. No two people born into the world probably have ever had identical lines upon all their digits. It is very doubtful if any single finger print will ever be exactly duplicated by any finger other than the one which originally made it.”
“Does the comparison require much time or labor?” asked D’Arnot.
“Ordinarily but a few moments, if the impressions are distinct.”
D’Arnot drew a little black book from his pocket and commenced turning the pages.
Tarzan looked at the book in surprise. How did D’Arnot come to have his book?
Presently D’Arnot stopped at a page on which were five tiny little smudges.
He handed the open book to the policeman.
“Are these imprints similar to mine or Monsieur Tarzan’s, or can you say that they are identical with either?”
The officer drew a powerful glass from his desk and examined all three specimens carefully, making notations meanwhile upon a pad of paper.
Tarzan realized now what was the meaning of their visit to the police officer.
The answer to his life’s riddle lay in these tiny marks.
With tense nerves he sat leaning forward in his chair, but suddenly he relaxed and dropped back, smiling.
D’Arnot looked at him in surprise.
“You forget that for twenty years the dead body of the child who made those finger prints lay in the cabin of his father, and that all my life I have seen it lying there,” said Tarzan bitterly.
The policeman looked up in astonishment.
“Go ahead, captain, with your examination,” said D’Arnot, “we will tell you the story later—provided Monsieur Tarzan is agreeable.”
Tarzan nodded his head.
“But you are mad, my dear D’Arnot,” he insisted. “Those little fingers are buried on the west coast of Africa.”
“I do not know as to that, Tarzan,” replied D’Arnot. “It is possible, but if you are not the son of John Clayton then how in heaven’s name did you come into that God forsaken jungle where no white man other than John Clayton had ever set foot?”
“You forget—Kala,” said Tarzan.
“I do not even consider her,” replied D’Arnot.
The friends had walked to the broad window overlooking the boulevard as they talked. For some time they stood there gazing out upon the busy throng beneath, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
“It takes some time to compare finger prints,” thought D’Arnot, turning to look at the police officer.
To his astonishment he saw the official leaning back in his chair hastily scanning the contents of the little black diary.
D’Arnot coughed. The policeman looked up, and, catching his eye, raised his finger to admonish silence.
D’Arnot turned back to the window, and presently the police officer spoke.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
Both turned toward him.
“There is evidently a great deal at stake which must hinge to a greater or lesser extent upon the absolute correctness of this comparison. I therefore ask that you leave the entire matter in my hands until Monsieur Desquerc, our expert, returns. It will be but a matter of a few days.”
“I had hoped to know at once,” said D’Arnot. “Monsieur Tarzan sails for America tomorrow.”
“I will promise that you can cable him a report within two weeks,” replied the officer; “but what it will be I dare not say. There are resemblances, yet—well, we had better leave it for Monsieur Desquerc to solve.”
A TAXICAB DREW UP BEFORE AN OLD-FASHIONED RESIDENCE upon the outskirts of Baltimore.
A man of about forty, well built and with strong, regular features, stepped out, and paying the chauffeur dismissed him.
A moment later the passenger was entering the library of the old home.
“Ah, Mr. Canler!” exclaimed an old man, rising to greet him.
“Good evening, my dear Professor,” cried the man, extending a cordial hand.
“Who admitted you?” asked the professor.
“Esmeralda.”
“Then she will acquaint Jane with the fact that you are here,” said the old man.
“No, Professor,” replied Canler, “for I came primarily to see you.”
“Ah, I am honored,” said Professor Porter.
“Professor,” continued Robert Canler, with great deliberation,
as though carefully weighing his words, “I have come this evening to speak with you about Jane.
“You know my aspirations, and you have been generous enough to approve my suit.”
Professor Archimedes Q. Porter fidgeted in his armchair. The subject always made him uncomfortable. He could not understand why. Canler was a splendid match.
“But Jane,” continued Canler, “I cannot understand her. She puts me off first on one ground and then another. I have always the feeling that she breathes a sigh of relief every time I bid her good by.”
“Tut—tut,” said Professor Porter. “Tut—tut, Mr. Canler. Jane is a most obedient daughter. She will do precisely as I tell her.”
“Then I can still count on your support?” asked Canler, a tone of relief marking his voice.
“Certainly, sir; certainly, sir,” exclaimed Professor Porter. “How could you doubt it?”
“There is young Clayton, you know,” suggested Canler. “He has been hanging about for months.
“I don’t know that Jane cares for him; but beside his title they say he has inherited a very considerable estate from his father, and it might not be strange, if he finally won her, unless—” and Canler paused.
“Tut—tut, Mr. Canler; unless—what?”
“Unless, you see fit to request that Jane and I be married at once,” said Canler, slowly and distinctly.
“I have already suggested to Jane that it would be desirable,” said Professor Porter sadly, “for we can no longer afford to keep up this house and live as her associations demand.”
“What was her reply?” asked Canler.
“She said she was not ready to marry anyone yet,” replied Professor Porter, “and that we could go and live upon the farm in northern Wisconsin which her mother left her.
“It is a little more than self-supporting. The tenants have always made a living from it, and been able to send Jane a trifle beside, each year.
“She is planning on our going up there the first of the week. Philander and Mr. Clayton have already gone to get things in readiness for us.”
“Clayton has gone there?” exclaimed Canler, visibly chagrined. “Why was not I told? I would gladly have gone and seen that every comfort was provided.”
“Jane feels that we are already too much in your debt, Mr. Canler,” said Professor Porter.
Canler was about to reply, when the sound of footsteps came from the hall without, and Jane Porter entered the room.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed, pausing on the threshold. “I thought you were alone, papa.”
“It is only I, Jane,” said Canler, who had risen, “won’t you come in and join the family group? We were just speaking of you.”
“Thank you,” said Jane Porter, entering and taking the chair Canler placed for her. “I only wanted to tell papa that Tobey is coming down from the college tomorrow to pack his books. I want you to be sure, papa, to indicate all that you can do without until fall. Please don’t carry this entire library to Wisconsin, as you would have carried it to Africa, if I had not put my foot down.”
“Was Tobey here?” asked Professor Porter.
“Yes, I just left him. He and Esmeralda are exchanging religious experiences on the back porch now.”
“Tut—tut, I must see him at once!” cried the professor. “Excuse me just a moment, children,” and the old man hastened from the room.
As soon as he was out of ear-shot Canler turned to Jane Porter.
“See here, Jane,” he said bluntly. “How long is this thing going on like this?
“You haven’t refused to marry me, but you haven’t promised either.
“I want to get the license tomorrow, so that we can be married quietly before you leave for Wisconsin. I don’t care for any fuss or feathers, and I’m sure you don’t either.”
The girl turned cold, but she held her head bravely.
“Your father wishes it, you know,” added Canler.
“Yes, I know.”
She spoke scarcely above a whisper.
“Do you realize that you are buying me, Mr. Canler?” she said finally, and in a cold, level voice. “Buying me for a few paltry dollars? Of course you do, Robert Canler, and the hope of just such a contingency was in your mind when you loaned papa the money for that hair-brained escapade, which but for a most mysterious circumstance would have been surprisingly successful.
“But you, Mr. Canler, would have been the most surprised. You had no idea that the venture would succeed. You are too good a business man for that. And you are too good a business man to loan money for buried-treasure seeking, or to loan money without security—unless you had some special object in view.
“You knew that without security you had a greater hold on the honor of the Porters than with it. You knew the one best way to force me to marry you, without seeming to force me.
“You have never mentioned the loan. In any other man I should have thought that the prompting of a magnanimous and noble character. But you are deep, Mr. Robert Canler. I know you better than you think I know you.
“I shall certainly marry you if there is no other way, but let us understand each other once and for all.”
While she spoke Robert Canler had alternately flushed and paled, and when she ceased speaking he arose, and with a cynical smile upon his strong face, said:
“You surprise me, Jane. I thought you had more self control—more pride.
“Of course you are right. I am buying you, and I knew that you knew it, but I thought you would prefer to pretend that it was otherwise. I should have thought your self-respect and your Porter pride would have shrunk from admitting, even to yourself, that you were a bought woman.
“But have it your own way, dear girl,” he added lightly.
“I am going to have you, and that is all that interests me.”
Without a word the girl turned and left the room.
Jane Porter was not married before she left with her father and Esmeralda for her little Wisconsin farm, and as she coldly bid Robert Canler good by as her train pulled out, he called to her that he would join them in a week or two.
At their destination they were met by Clayton and Mr. Philander in a huge touring car belonging to the former, and quickly whirled away through the dense northern woods toward the little farm which the girl had not visited before since childhood.
The farm house, which stood on a little elevation some hundred yards from the tenant house, had undergone a complete transformation, during the three weeks that Clayton and Mr. Philander had been there.
The former had imported a small army of carpenters and plasterers, plumbers and painters from a distant city, and what had been but a dilapidated shell when they reached it was now a cosy little two story house filled with every modern convenience procurable in so short a time.
“Why, Mr. Clayton, what have you done?” cried Jane Porter, her heart sinking within her as she realized the probable size of the expenditure that had been made.
“S-sh,” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t let your father guess. If you don’t tell him he will never notice, and I simply couldn’t think of him living in the terrible squalor and sordidness which Mr. Philander and I found. It was so little when I would do so much, Jane. For his sake, please, never mention it.”
“But you know that we can’t repay you,” cried the girl. “Why do you want to put me under such terrible obligations?”
“Don’t, Jane,” said Clayton sadly. “If it had been just you, believe me, I wouldn’t have done it, for I knew from the start that it would only hurt me in your eyes, but I couldn’t think of that dear old man living in the hole we found here.
“Won’t you please believe that I did it just for him and give me that little crumb of pleasure at least?”
“I do believe you, Mr. Clayton,” said the girl, “because I know you are big enough and generous enough to have done it just for him—and, oh Cecil, I wish I might repay you as you deserve—as you would wish.”
“Why can’t you, Jane?”
“Because I love another.”
“Canler?”
“No.”
“But you are going to marry him. He told me as much before I left Baltimore.”
The girl winced.
“I do not love him,” she said, almost proudly.
“Is it because of the money, Jane?”
She nodded.
“Then am I so much less desirable than Canler? I have money enough, and far more, for every need,” he said bitterly.
“I do not love you, Cecil,” she said, “but I respect you. If I must disgrace myself by such a bargain with any man, I prefer that it be one I already despise. I should loathe the man to whom I sold myself without love, whomsoever he might be.
“You will be happier,” she concluded, “alone—with my respect and friendship, than with me and my contempt.”
He did not press the matter further, but if ever a man had murder in his heart it was William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, when, a week later, Robert Canler drew up before the farm house in his purring six cylinder.
A week passed; a tense, uneventful, but uncomfortable week for all the inmates of the little Wisconsin farm house.
Canler was insistent that Jane marry him at once.
At length she gave in from sheer loathing of the continued and hateful importuning.
It was agreed that on the morrow Canler was to drive to town and bring back the license and a minister.
Clayton had wanted to leave as soon as the plan was announced, but the girl’s tired, hopeless look kept him. He could not desert her.
Something might happen yet, he tried to console himself by thinking. And in his heart, he knew that it would require but a tiny spark to turn his hatred for Canler into the blood lust of the killer.
Early the next morning Canler set out for town.
In the east smoke could be seen lying low over the forest, for a fire had been raging for a week not far from them, but the wind still lay in the west and no danger threatened them.
About noon Jane Porter started off for a walk. She would not let Clayton accompany her. She wanted to be alone, she said, and he respected her wishes.
In the house Professor Porter and Mr. Philander were immersed in an absorbing discussion of some weighty scientific problem. Esmeralda dozed in the kitchen, and Clayton, heavy-eyed after a sleepless night, threw himself down upon the couch in the living room and soon dropped into a fitful slumber.
To the east the black smoke clouds rose higher into the heavens, suddenly they eddied, and then commenced to drift rapidly toward the west.
On and on they came. The inmates of the tenant house were gone, for it was market day, and none there was to see the rapid approach of the fiery demon.
Soon the flames had spanned the road to the south and cut off Canler’s return. A little fluctuation of the wind now carried the path of the forest fire to the north, then blew back and the flames nearly stood still as though held in leash by some master hand.
Suddenly, out of the north-east, a great black car came careening down the road.
With a jolt it stopped before the cottage, and a black haired giant leaped out to run up onto the porch. Without a pause he rushed into the house. On the couch lay Clayton.
The man started in surprise, but with a bound was at the side of the sleeping man.
Shaking him roughly by the shoulder, he cried:
“My God, Clayton, are you all mad here? Don’t you know you are nearly surrounded by fire? Where is Miss Porter?”
Clayton sprang to his feet. He did not recognize the man, but he understood the words and was upon the veranda in a bound.
“Scott!” he cried, and then, dashing back into the house, “Jane! Jane! where are you?”
In an instant Esmeralda, Professor Porter, and Mr. Philander had joined the two men.
“Where is Miss Jane?” cried Clayton, seizing Esmeralda by the shoulders and shaking her roughly.