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.
D'Arnot looked at him in surprise.
"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.
The policeman looked up in astonishment.
"Go ahead, captain, with your examination," said D'Arnot,
"we will tell you the story later--provided Monsieur Tarzan
is agreeable."
Tarzan nodded his head.
"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?"
"You forget--Kala," said Tarzan.
"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.
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