Tarzan realized now what was the meaning of their visit to the police officer.
The answer to his life’s riddle lay in these tiny marks.
With tense nerves he sat leaning forward in his chair, but suddenly he relaxed and dropped back, smiling.
“You forget that for twenty years the dead body of the child who made those fingerprints lay in the cabin of his father, and that all my life I have seen it lying there,” said Tarzan bitterly.
“Go ahead, captain, with your examination,” said D’Arnot, “we will tell you the story later—provided Monsieur Tarzan is agreeable.”
“But you are mad, my dear D’Arnot,” he insisted. “Those little fingers are buried on the west coast of Africa.”
“I do not know as to that, Tarzan,” replied D’Arnot. “It is possible, but if you are not the son of John Clayton then how in heaven’s name did you come into that God forsaken jungle where no white man other than John Clayton had ever set foot?”
“I do not even consider her,” replied D’Arnot.
The friends had walked to the broad window overlooking the boulevard as they talked. For some time they stood there gazing out upon the busy throng beneath, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
“It takes some time to compare finger prints,” thought D’Arnot, turning to look at the police officer.
To his astonishment he saw the official leaning back in his chair hastily scanning the contents of the little black diary.
D’Arnot coughed. The policeman looked up, and, catching his eye, raised his finger to admonish silence. D’Arnot turned back to the window, and presently the police officer spoke.
“There is evidently a great deal at stake which must hinge to a greater or lesser extent upon the absolute correctness of this comparison. I therefore ask that you leave the entire matter in my hands until Monsieur Desquerc, our expert returns. It will be but a matter of a few days.”
“I had hoped to know at once,” said D’Arnot. “Monsieur Tarzan sails for America tomorrow.”
“I will promise that you can cable him a report within two weeks,” replied the officer; “but what it will be I dare not say. There are resemblances, yet—well, we had better leave it for Monsieur Desquerc to solve.”
A taxicab drew up before an oldfashioned residence upon the outskirts of Baltimore.