It thanked Carruthers
quite genuinely, even if couched in somewhat facetious terms, for his
"sweeping vindication," twitted him gently for his "backsliding,"
begged to remain "his gratefully," and in lieu of signature there was a
gray-coloured piece of paper shaped like this:
[Picture]
Only there were no fingerprints on it.
CHAPTER III
THE MOTHER LODE
It was the following evening, and they had dined together again at the
St. James Club--Jimmie Dale, and Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS.
From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had
turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general.
Jimmie Dale, lazily ensconced now in a lounging chair in one of the
club's private library rooms, flicked a minute speck of cigar ash from
the sleeve of his dinner jacket, and smiled whimsically across the table
at his friend.
"Oh, I dare say there's a lot in physiognomy, Carruthers," he drawled.
"Never studied the thing, you know--that is, from the standpoint
of crime. Personally, I've only got one prejudice: I distrust, on
principle, the man who wears a perennial and pompous smirk--which isn't,
of course, strictly speaking, physiognomy at all. You see, a man can't
help his eyes being beady or his nose pronounced, but pomposity and a
smirk, now--" Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.
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