However, neither this far-reaching enquiry, nor the panorama of past pictures flashing before Inspector Corot, were productive of anything startling that day or the next.

It was on the evening of the third day that the slight figure of the head of the Homicide Squad shot out of the projection room and flashed by so fast that the newspaperman's frantic dash to the lower street level enabled him only to see the retreating tail-light of the police car. On the silent screen in the dark room something had pointed a finger of guilt at the murderer!

He was incommunicado at Headquarters, and it was not until the next morning that the insistent Dawson was finally admitted to his private office. Moody and Carroll entered shortly after him. From a bag he carried, the former carefully removed an object and placed it on the desk of his superior. It was a dagger-like knife, something like the short-sword of the early Roman. Beside the sinister weapon he laid a glass tumbler.

"The glass from the hotel room and the big bowie both have the same fingerprints," he said laconically.

THOUGH the man-hunter's eyes danced with a strange light, the only evidence of emotion was his rapid puffing on his pipe.

"Find the other knives?" he asked abruptly. "Sure," answered the detective-sergeant, with a casualness that did not deceive. "Twenty of 'em, with a lot of junk from an old circus act. The circus people raised hell about us breaking open the trunk. Got 'em downstairs, if you want 'em."

"Yes; bring one out to the car," his chief told him, "and see that it is properly wrapped. Carroll, file those exhibits, and don't mess the fingerprints."

Then he looked at the newspaperman and smiled slowly, "Got our man!" he said, like one who relieved suffering. "All but the collar."

"Who—what—how—?" Dawson spluttered. "You—you—"

But already Corot was on his feet and donning topcoat and hat. In the police car, Moody and Carroll were waiting. "Studio!" clipped Corot.