“It is marvelous,” 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 hardwood box which he placed on his superior’s desk.
“Now,” said the officer, “you shall have your fingerprints 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 fingerprints show racial characteristics?” he asked. “Could you determine, for example, solely from fingerprints whether the subject was Negro or Caucasian?”
“I think not,” replied the officer.
“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 It is very doubtful if any single fingerprint will ever be exactly duplicated by any finger other than the one which originally made it.”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 fingerprints 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.”
XXVII
The Giant Again
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
