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“I did not. “ Weaver’s eyes, still disconcertingly blue and bearing evidence that must
have been at some point a handsome man, pierced into Trevor’s. “Look, man, my most fervent hope
was to speak with Geraldine Bainbridge. That is why I wrote her, seeking not only her help, which I
suppose you may be able to provide, but her forgiveness, which only Geraldine can grant.” He
coughed. “There are a limited number of souls on earth in whom I feel any desire to confide, and
yours is not among them. No, certainly not you or anyone in your fine contingent from Scotland Yard.
So, help me if you choose. Or condemn me if you must. But either way, this interview has come to an
end.”
“Not quite. I still must fingerprint you.”
The old man looked at him in dismay. “What the devil does that mean?”