The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints,

and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

 

“Come now,” he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner, “you’ve got to

admit that those prints were made by some one who was in the house that night?”

 

“_Bien entendu_,” said Poirot, nodding his head.

 

“Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, every one, mind

you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.”

 

I don’t think Mrs. Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She

must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

 

“Every one’s,” repeated the inspector fussily.

 

“Including mine,” I said dryly.

 

“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives.

 

Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about.

 

When we get hold of those two——”