He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered with delicately-lined oval spots, but visible only to such persons as could get a dark background for them—the foliage of a tree, outside, for instance. Then, upon call, Wilson went to the window, made his examination, and said—
“This is Count Luigi’s right hand; this one, three signatures below, is his left. Here is Count Angelo’s right; down here is his left. Now for the other pane: here and here are Count Luigi’s, here and here are his brother’s.” He faced about. “Am I right?”
A deafening explosion of applause was the answer. The Bench said—
“This certainly approaches the miraculous!”
Wilson turned to the window again and remarked, pointing with his finger—
“This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.] This, of Constable Blake. [Applause.] This, of John Mason, juryman. [Applause.] This, of the sheriff. [Applause.] I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated, and could identify them all by my fingerprint records.”
He moved to his place through a storm of applause—which the sheriff stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were all standing and struggling to see, of course. Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody had been too absorbed in observing Wilson’s performance to attend to the audience earlier.
“Now, then,” said Wilson, “I have here the natal autographs of two children—thrown up to ten times the natural size by the pantograph, so that anyone who can see at all can tell the markings apart at a glance. We will call the children A and B. Here are A’s fingermarks, taken at the age of five months. Here they are again, taken at seven months. [Tom started.] They are alike, you see. Here are B’s at five months, and also at seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns are quite different from A’s, you observe. I shall refer to these again presently, but we will turn them face down, now.
“Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the two persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll. I made these pantograph copies last night, and will so swear when I go upon the witness stand. I ask the jury to compare them with the fingermarks of the accused upon the window panes, and tell the court if they are the same.”
He passed a powerful magnifying-glass to the foreman.
One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass and made the comparison. Then the foreman said to the judge—
“Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical.”
Wilson said to the foreman—
“Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one, and compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal signature upon the knife-handle, and report your finding to the court.”
Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported—
“We find them to be exactly identical, your honor.”
Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution, and there was a clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice when he said—
“May it please the court, the State has claimed, strenuously and persistently, that the bloodstained fingerprints upon that knife-handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll. You have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it.” He turned to the jury: “Compare the fingerprints of the accused with the fingerprints left by the assassin—and report.”
The comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all sound ceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense settled upon the house; and when at last the words came—
“They do not even resemble,” a thunder-crash of applause followed and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by official force and brought to order again. Tom was altering his position every few minutes, now, but none of his changes brought repose nor any small trifle of comfort. When the house’s attention was become fixed once more, Wilson said gravely, indicating the twins with a gesture—
“These men are innocent—I have no further concern with them. [Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.] We will now proceed to find the guilty. [Tom’s eyes were starting from their sockets—yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved youth, everybody thought.] We will return to the infant autographs of A and B. I will ask the jury to take these large pantograph facsimilies of A’s marked five months and seven months. Do they tally?”
The foreman responded—
“Perfectly.”
“Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months, and also marked A. Does it tally with the other two?”
The surprised response was—
“No—they differ widely!”
“You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of B’s autograph, marked five months and seven months. Do they tally with each other?”
“Yes—perfectly.”
“Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months. Does it tally with B’s other two?”
“By no means!”
“Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies? I will tell you. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish one, somebody changed those children in the cradle.”
This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was astonished at this admirable guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the exchange was one thing, to guess who did it quite another. Pudd’nhead Wilson could do wonderful things, no doubt, but he couldn’t do impossible ones. Safe? She was perfectly safe. She smiled privately.
“Between the ages of seven months and eight months those children were changed in
