“Yes; to the eye, but not to the photographing apparatus. It is thoroughly established that the pattern formed by the innumerable lines which furrow the fleshy part of our fingers is as peculiarly characteristic of each individual as the shape of his nose, of his ears, or the colour of his eyes. The curves or rings, the various forms taken by these lines already exist in the newly born and never change to the day of his death. Even in case of a burn, if the skin grows again, the ridges reappear exactly as they were before the accident. I tell you, one can obtain by this method – this test – such results as you would never dream of. For example, by taking these imprints I obtained in the early hours of today, as a basis, I can tell you, with almost absolute accuracy, the height of the individual.”

“This is marvellous!” cried Fandor. “The service your department renders then is to finally abolish legal blunders?”

“That is so. Every individual identified, is identified plainly, irrefutably. Unfortunately, we cannot always obtain perfect imprints on the spot where the crime is committed.” But this night?

“Ah, as I told you, the impressions were most satisfactory. I have the thief’s hand – the whole of it! I will even go so far as to declare that the fellow who committed the crime has already been processed. I recognise that hand!

You shall see, whether or no I have made a mistake!” Bertillon pressed a bell and asked the official who answered it:

“Have you identified the imprints I sent you just now?”

“Yes, sir. This man has already been measured here. It is register 9200.”

Bertillon turned to Fandor:

“You see, I was not mistaken! All I have to do is to turn up my alphabetical index – and for this very month, for the number is a recent one – and I shall know the name of the previous offender – he must be one, as he is catalogued here – who has committed this assault.”

Whilst speaking, Monsieur Bertillon was turning over the leaves of an enormous register.

“Ah! Here is the 9200 series!”

Suddenly the book slipped from his hands and he exclaimed “The guilty man is...”

“Is who?” questioned Fandor.

“Is Jacques Dollon! ... The hand that has robbed Princess Sonia Danidoff is the hand of Jacques Dollon!”

“But that’s impossible...”

Bertillon shrugged his shoulders.

“Impossible?... Why – since the proof of it is there?

“But Jacques Dollon is dead!”

“He was the thief, of yesterday’s crime.”

“You are making a mistake!”

“I am not making a mistake!... Jacques Dollon is the thief, I tell you!”

This was too much for Jérôme Fandor; he could not contain himself.

“And I tell you, Monsieur Bertillon, that I know, that I am certain – positively certain, that Jacques Dollon is dead!... Now then!”

The man of science shook his head.