``Felix?'' Gibby said.

``Me,'' he said merrily. ``Me, the happy one.''

``That much Latin we remember,'' Gibby said dryly. ``You always live up to your name, always like this, always making happy?''

``I try,'' Felix said blithely. ``The world is full of blokes who put their hearts into making the tragic scene. I've never noticed that it improves things any.''

``Bully for you,'' Gibby said. ``What's the rest of your name?''

``No rest of it. Felix is all there is.''

``All there ever was?''

``The past I leave to historians,'' Felix intoned, demonstrating that he could be pompous as well as happy.

``You live in the present?''

``In the present,'' Felix proclaimed. ``For the future. Is there any other time in which a man can live?''

``We,'' Gibby announced, ``are not philosophers. We are Assistant District Attorneys. This gentleman is a police officer. He is a fingerprint specialist. Could your future, your immediate future, be made to include taking us upstairs, giving us a bit of space in which our friend can work, and making available to him your finger tips?''

The happy one could never have looked happier. This was more than joy. It was ecstasy.

``Those lovely whorls,'' he chortled. ``So intricate, so beautiful. Come right along. I love fingerprints.''

He was prancing along the hall, heading for the next flight of stairs.

Gibby called him back. ``We're here because of what happened last night,'' he said. ``Past, yes, but important. Since it is important, for the record let's have the full name.''