"It is strange that your hand should so exactly fit the marks on the
handkerchief, Harry."
"Well, yes," admitted the youth; "I hope you didn't imagine, however,
that _I_ had a hand in this railway robbery and murder?"
At the last Harry Bernard laughed lightly. Dyke Darrel did not seem to
relish the young fellow's lightness, and only frowned.
"This is not a laughing matter, Harry Bernard," said the detective,
sternly.
"Well I should say not. If you have a serious thought that I could do
such a deed, Dyke, place me under arrest at once."
There was an expression of rebuke on the face of Bernard as he uttered
the last words. He did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and
after a moment Dyke Darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions.
"Never mind, Harry, I could not help feeling shocked. Let it pass; I
will not wrong you by suspicion. But you will admit that it was a
strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly."
"Not at all. Put your own hand here," returned Bernard.
Dyke Darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as Harry's. It was
not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so
startled the detective. Harry had not discovered the true cause of his
friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about
it then.
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