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 jewels seen by the inquisitive housekeeper, I said to myself: 'Ah! Leander's misguided Dulcinea has lent him her gewgaws to save him from the yawning dungeon.' Nor did I overlook the fact that he had been shielding someone in his explanation about the check. Therefore, as soon as the lady's name and address were learned by Tracy, I made the appointment for you. . . . "

We were passing the Gothic-Renaissance Schwab residence which extends from West End Avenue to Riverside Drive at Seventy-third Street; and Vance stopped for a moment to contemplate it.

Markham waited patiently. At length Vance walked on.

" . . . Y' know, the moment I saw Mrs. Banning I knew my conclusions were correct. She was a sentimental soul, and just the sort of professional good sport who would have handed over her jewels to her amoroso. Also, she was bereft of gems when we called,—and a woman of her stamp always wears her jewels when she desires to make an impression on strangers. Moreover, she's the kind that would have jewellery even if the larder was empty. It was therefore merely a question of getting her to talk."

"On the whole, you did very well," observed Markham.

Vance gave him a condescending bow.

"Sir Hubert is too generous.—But tell me, didn't my little chat with the lady cast a gleam into your darkened mind?"

"Naturally," said Markham. "I'm not utterly obtuse. She played unconsciously into our hands. She believed Pfyfe did not arrive in New York until


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 the morning after the murder, and therefore told us quite frankly that she had 'phoned him that Benson had the jewels at home. The situation now is: Pfyfe knew they were in Benson's house, and was there himself at about the time the shot was fired. Furthermore, the jewels are gone; and Pfyfe tried to cover up his tracks that night."

Vance sighed hopelessly.

"Markham, there are altogether too many trees for you in this case. You simply can't see the forest, y' know, because of 'em."

"There is the remote possibility that you are so busily engaged in looking at one particular tree that you are unaware of the others."

A shadow passed over Vance's face.

"I wish you were right," he said.

It was nearly half past one, and we dropped into the Fountain Room of the Ansonia Hotel for lunch. Markham was preoccupied throughout the meal, and when we entered the subway later, he looked uneasily at his watch.

"I think I'll go on down to Wall Street and call on the Major a moment before returning to the office. I can't understand his asking Miss Hoffman not to mention the package to me. . . . It might not have contained the jewels, after all."

"Do you imagine for one moment," rejoined Vance, "that Alvin told the Major the truth about the package? It was not a very cred'table transaction, y' know; and the Major most likely would have given him what-for."

Major Benson's explanation bore out Vance's surmise. Markham, in telling him of the interview with

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 Paula Banning, emphasized the jewel episode in the hope that the Major would voluntarily mention the package; for his promise to Miss Hoffman prevented him from admitting that he was aware of the other's knowledge concerning it.

The Major listened with considerable astonishment, his eyes gradually growing angry.

"I'm afraid Alvin deceived me," he said. He looked straight ahead for a moment, his face softening. "And I don't like to think it, now that he's gone. But the truth is, when Miss Hoffman told me this morning about the envelope, she also mentioned a small parcel that had been in Alvin's private safe-drawer; and I asked her to omit any reference to it from her story to you. I knew the parcel contained Mrs. Banning's jewels, but I thought the fact would only confuse matters if brought to your attention. You see, Alvin told me that a judgment had been taken against Mrs. Banning, and that, just before the Supplementary Proceedings, Pfyfe had brought her jewels here and asked him to sequester them temporarily in his safe."

On our way back to the Criminal Courts Building Markham took Vance's arm and smiled.

"Your guessing luck is holding out, I see."

"Rather!" agreed Vance. "It would appear that the late Alvin, like Warren Hastings, resolved to die in the last dyke of prevarication. . . . Splendide mendax, what?"

"In any event," replied Markham, "the Major has unconsciously added another link in the chain against Pfyfe."

"You seem to be making a collection of chains,"


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 commented Vance drily. "What have you done with the ones you forged about Miss St. Clair and Leacock?"

"I haven't entirely discarded them—if that's what you think," asserted Markham gravely.

When we reached the office Sergeant Heath was awaiting us with a beatific grin.

"It's all over, Mr. Markham," he announced. "This noon, after you'd gone, Leacock came here looking for you. When he found you were out, he 'phoned Headquarters, and they connected him with me. He wanted to see me—very important, he said; so I hurried over. He was sitting in the waiting-room when I came in, and he called me over and said: 'I came to give myself up. I killed Benson.' I got him to dictate a confession to Swacker, and then he signed it. . . . Here it is." He handed Markham a typewritten sheet of paper.

Markham sank wearily into a chair. The strain of the past few days had begun to tell on him. He sighed heavily.

"Thank God! Now our troubles are ended."

Vance looked at him lugubriously, and shook his head.

"I rather fancy, y' know, that your troubles are only beginning," he drawled.

When Markham had glanced through the confession he handed it to Vance, who read it carefully with an expression of growing amusement.

"Y' know," he said, "this document isn't at all legal. Any judge worthy the name would throw it precip'tately out of court. It's far too simple and precise. It doesn't begin with 'greetings'; it doesn't


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 contain a single 'wherefore-be-it' or 'be-it-known' or 'do-hereby'; it says nothing about 'free will' or 'sound mind' or 'disposin' mem'ry'; and the Captain doesn't once refer to himself as 'the party of the first part'. . . . Utterly worthless, Sergeant. If I were you, I'd chuck it."

Heath was feeling too complacently triumphant to be annoyed. He smiled with magnanimous tolerance.

"It strikes you as funny, doesn't it, Mr. Vance?"

"Sergeant, if you knew how inord'nately funny this confession is, you'd pos'tively have hysterics."

Vance then turned to Markham.

"Really, y' know, I shouldn't put too much stock in this. It may, however, prove a valuable lever with which to prise open the truth. In fact, I'm jolly glad the Captain has gone in for imag'native lit'rature. With this entrancin' fable in our possession, I think we can overcome the Major's scruples, and get him to tell us what he knows. Maybe I'm wrong, but it's worth trying."

He stepped to the District Attorney's desk, and leaned over it cajolingly.

"I haven't led you astray yet, old dear; and I'm going to make another suggestion. Call up the Major and ask him to come here at once. Tell him you've secured a confession,—but don't you dare say whose. Imply it's Miss St. Clair's, or Pfyfe's—or Pontius Pilate's. But urge his immediate presence. Tell him you want to discuss it with him before proceeding with the indictment."

"I can't see the necessity of doing that," objected Markham. "I'm pretty sure to see him at the Club to-night, and I can tell him then."


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 "That wouldn't do at all," insisted Vance. "If the Major can enlighten us on any point, I think Sergeant Heath should be present to hear him."

"I don't need any enlightenment," cut in Heath.

Vance regarded him with admiring surprise.

"What a wonderful man! Even Goethe cried for mehr Licht; and here are you in a state of luminous saturation! . . . Astonishin'!"

"See here, Vance," said Markham: "why try to complicate the matter? It strikes me as a waste of time, besides being an imposition, to ask the Major here to discuss Leacock's confession. We don't need his evidence now, anyway."

Despite his gruffness there was a hint of reconsideration in his voice; for though his instinct had been to dismiss the request out of hand, the experiences of the past few days had taught him that Vance's suggestions were not made without an object.

Vance, sensing the other's hesitancy, said:

"My request is based on something more than an idle desire to gaze upon the Major's rubicund features at this moment. I'm telling you, with all the meagre earnestness I possess, that his presence here now would be most helpful."

Markham deliberated, and argued the point at some length. But Vance was so persistent that in the end he was convinced of the advisability of complying.

Heath was patently disgusted, but he sat down quietly, and sought solace in a cigar.

Major Benson arrived with astonishing promptness, and when Markham handed him the confession, he made little attempt to conceal his eagerness.


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 But as he read it his face clouded, and a look of puzzlement came into his eyes.

At length he looked up, frowning.

"I don't quite understand this; and I'll admit I'm greatly surprised. It doesn't seem credible that Leacock shot Alvin. . . . And yet, I may be mistaken, of course."

He laid the confession on Markham's desk with an air of disappointment, and sank into a chair.

"Do you feel satisfied?" he asked.

"I don't see any way around it," said Markham. "If he isn't guilty, why should he come forward and confess? God knows, there's plenty of evidence against him. I was ready to arrest him two days ago."

"He's guilty all right," put in Heath. "I've had my eye on him from the first."

Major Benson did not reply at once: he seemed to be framing his next words.

"It might be—that is, there's the bare possibility—that Leacock had an ulterior motive in confessing."

We all, I think, recognized the thought which his words strove to conceal.

"I'll admit," acceded Markham, "that at first I believed Miss St. Clair guilty, and I intimated as much to Leacock. But later I was persuaded that she was not directly involved."

"Does Leacock know this?" the Major asked quickly.

Markham thought a moment.

"No, I can't say that he does. In fact, it's more than likely he still thinks I suspect her."


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 "Ah!" The Major's exclamation was almost involuntary.

"But what's that got to do with it?" asked Heath irritably. "Do you think he's going to the chair to save her reputation?—Bunk! That sort of thing's all right in the movies, but no man's that crazy in real life."

"I'm not so sure, Sergeant," ventured Vance lazily. "Women are too sane and practical to make such foolish gestures; but men, y' know, have an illim'table capacity for idiocy."

He turned an inquiring gaze on Major Benson.

"Won't you tell us why you think Leacock is playing Sir Galahad?"

But the Major took refuge in generalities, and was disinclined even to follow up his original intimation as to the cause of the Captain's action. Vance questioned him for some time, but was unable to penetrate his reticence.

Heath, becoming restless, finally spoke up.

"You can't argue Leacock's guilt away, Mr. Vance. Look at the facts. He threatened Benson that he'd kill him if he caught him with the girl again. The next time Benson goes out with her, he's found shot. Then Leacock hides his gun at her house, and when things begin to get hot, he takes it away and ditches it in the river. He bribes the hall-boy to alibi him; and he's seen at Benson's house at twelve-thirty that night. When he's questioned he can't explain anything. . . . If that ain't an open-and-shut case, I'm a mock-turtle."

"The circumstances are convincing," admitted


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 Major Benson. "But couldn't they be accounted for on other grounds?"

Heath did not deign to answer the question.

"The way I see it," he continued, "is like this: Leacock gets suspicious along about midnight, takes his gun and goes out. He catches Benson with the girl, goes in, and shoots him like he threatened. They're both mixed up in it, if you ask me; but Leacock did the shooting. And now we got his confession. . . . There isn't a jury in the country that wouldn't convict him."

"Probi et legales homines—oh, quite!" murmured Vance.

Swacker appeared at the door.

"The reporters are clamoring for attention," he announced with a wry face.

"Do they know about the confession?" Markham asked Heath.

"Not yet. I haven't told 'em anything so far—that's why they're clamoring, I guess. But I'll give 'em an earful now, if you say the word."

Markham nodded, and Heath started for the door. But Vance quickly planted himself in the way.

"Could you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow, Markham?" he asked.

Markham was annoyed.

"I could if I wanted to—yes. But why should I?"

"For your own sake, if for no other reason. You've got your prize safely locked up. Control your vanity for twenty-four hours. The Major and I both know that Leacock's innocent, and by this time to-morrow the whole country'll know it."

Again an argument ensued; but the outcome, like


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 that of the former argument, was a foregone conclusion. Markham had realized for some time that Vance had reason to be convinced of something which as yet he was unwilling to divulge. His opposition to Vance's requests were, I had suspected, largely the result of an effort to ascertain this information; and I was positive of it now as he leaned forward and gravely debated the advisability of making public the Captain's confession.

Vance, as heretofore, was careful to reveal nothing; but in the end his sheer determination carried his point; and Markham requested Heath to keep his own councilcounsel [sic] until the next day. The Major, by a slight nod, indicated his approbation of the decision.

"You might tell the newspaper lads, though," suggested Vance, "that you'll have a rippin' sensation for 'em to-morrow."

Heath went out, crestfallen and glowering.

"A rash fella, the Sergeant—so impetuous!"

Vance again picked up the confession, and perused it.

"Now, Markham, I want you to bring your prisoner forth—habeas corpus and that sort of thing. Put him in that chair facing the window, give him one of the good cigars you keep for influential politicians, and then listen attentively while I politely chat with him. . . . The Major, I trust, will remain for the interlocut'ry proceedings."

"That request, at least, I'll grant without objections," smiled Markham. "I had already decided to have a talk with Leacock."


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 He pressed a buzzer, and a brisk, ruddy-faced clerk entered.

"A requisition for Captain Philip Leacock," he ordered.

When it was brought to him he initialed it.

"Take it to Ben, and tell him to hurry."

The clerk disappeared through the door leading to the outer corridor.

Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with the prisoner.


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Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping toward him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly, realizing the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.

The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.

"It's all right, Leacock," he said softly. "I can't think that you really shot Alvin."

The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.

"Of course, I shot him." His voice was flat. "I told him I was going to."

Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.

"Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat'ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than


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 yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess'ry for us to follow up our suspicions."

Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.

"You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?"

Leacock's face betrayed a sulky belligerence.

"It doesn't matter why I shot him.—Can't you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?"

"Certainly," agreed Vance. "I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly."

After a brief silence Leacock said:

"Very well, then. That was what I referred to."

"How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?"

"I followed them to the Marseilles."

"And then you went home?"

"Yes."

"What made you go to Mr. Benson's house later?"

"I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn't stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him."

A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.

Vance again referred to the confession.

"You dictated: 'I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street, and entered the house by the front door.'


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. . . Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?"

Leacock was about to answer, but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper's testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.

"What difference does it make?" He was sparring for time.

"We'd like to know—that's all," Vance told him. "But no hurry."

"Well, if it's so important to you: I didn't ring the bell; and the door wasn't unlocked." His hesitancy was gone. "Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab"

"Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A grey Cadillac?"

"Why—yes."

"Did you recognize its occupant?"

There was another short silence.

"I'm not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe."

"He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?"

Leacock frowned.

"No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived. . . . I didn't see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later."

"He arrived in his car when you were inside,—is that it?"

"He must have."

"I see. . . . And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?"


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 "I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latch-key."

"And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house."

"He laid his hat and stick on the hat-rack, and we walked into the living-room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun, and shot him."

Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.

"How did it happen that he was reading at the time?"

"I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking. . . . Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon."

"Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living-room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?"

"Yes."

"Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot he had on his smoking-jacket and slippers?"

Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered he wet his lips with his tongue.

"Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first. . . . I guess I was too excited," he added desperately, "to recollect everything."

"That's natural," Vance said sympathetically. "But when he came downstairs did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?"

Leacock looked up vaguely.

"His hair? I—don't understand."


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 "The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table-lamp, didn't you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?"

The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene.

"No—I don't remember."

"A minor point," said Vance indifferently. "Did Benson's speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?"

Leacock was manifestly puzzled.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "He seemed to talk the way he always talked."

"And did you happen to see a blue jewel-case on the table?"

"I didn't notice."

Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.

"When you left the room after shooting Mr. Benson, you turned out the lights, of course?"

When no immediate answer came, Vance volunteered the suggestion:

"You must have done so, for Mr. Pfyfe says the house was dark when he drove up."

Leacock then nodded an affirmative.

"That's right. I couldn't recollect for the moment."

"Now that you remember the fact, just how did you turn them off?"

"I" he began, and stopped. Then, finally: "At the switch."

"And where is that switch located, Captain?"

"I can't just recall."


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 "Think a moment. Surely you can remember."

"By the door leading into the hall, I think."

"Which side of the door?"

"How can I tell?" the man asked piteously. "I was too—nervous. . . . But I think it was on the right-hand side of the door."

"The right-hand side when entering or leaving the room?"

"As you go out."

"That would be where the bookcase stands?"

"Yes."

Vance appeared satisfied.

"Now, there's the question of the gun," he said. "Why did you take it to Miss St. Clair?"

"I was a coward," the man replied. "I was afraid they might find it at my apartment. And I never imagined she would be suspected."

"And when she was suspected, you at once took the gun away and threw it into the East River?"

"Yes."

"I suppose there was one cartridge missing from the magazine, too—which in itself would have been a suspicious circumstance."

"I thought of that. That's why I threw the gun away."

Vance frowned.

"That's strange. There must have been two guns. We dredged the river, y' know, and found a Colt automatic, but the magazine was full. . . . Are you sure, Captain, that it was your gun you took from Miss St. Clair's and threw over the bridge?"

I knew no gun had been retrieved from the river, and I wondered what he was driving at. Was he,


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 after all, trying to involve the girl? Markham, too, I could see, was in doubt.

Leacock made no answer for several moments. When he spoke, it was with dogged sullenness.

"There weren't two guns. The one you found was mine. . . . I refilled the magazine myself."

"Ah, that accounts for it." Vance's tone was pleasant and reassuring. "Just one more question, Captain. Why did you come here to-day and confess?"

Leacock thrust his chin out, and for the first time during the cross-examination his eyes became animated.

"Why? It was the only honorable thing to do. You had unjustly suspected an innocent person; and I didn't want anyone else to suffer."

This ended the interview. Markham had no questions to ask; and the deputy sheriff led the Captain out.

When the door had closed on him a curious silence fell over the room. Markham sat smoking furiously, his hands folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The Major had settled back in his chair, and was gazing at Vance with admiring satisfaction. Vance was watching Markham out of the corner of his eye, a drowsy smile on his lips. The expressions and attitudes of the three men conveyed perfectly their varying individual reactions to the interview—Markham troubled, the Major pleased, Vance cynical.

It was Vance who broke the silence. He spoke easily, almost lazily.

"You see how silly the confession is, what? Our


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 pure and lofty Captain is an incredibly poor Munchausen. No one could lie as badly as he did who hadn't been born into the world that way. It's simply impossible to imitate such stupidity. And he did so want us to think him guilty. Very affectin'. He prob'bly imagined you'd merely stick the confession in his shirt-front and send him to the hangman. You noticed, he hadn't even decided how he got into Benson's house that night. Pfyfe's admitted presence outside almost spoiled his impromptu explanation of having entered bras dessus bras dessous with his intended victim. And he didn't recall Benson's semi-négligé attire. When I reminded him of it, he had to contradict himself, and send Benson trotting upstairs to make a rapid change. Luckily, the toupee wasn't mentioned by the newspapers. The Captain couldn't imagine what I meant when I intimated that Benson had dyed his hair when changing his coat and shoes. . . . By the bye, Major, did your brother speak thickly when his false teeth were out?"

"Noticeably so," answered the Major. "If Alvin's plate had been removed that night—as I gathered it had been from your question—Leacock would surely have noticed it."

"There were other things he didn't notice," said Vance: "the jewel-case, for instance, and the location of the electric-light switch."

"He went badly astray on that point," added the Major. "Alvin's house is old-fashioned, and the only switch in the room is a pendant one attached to the chandelier."

"Exactly," said Vance. "However, his worst


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 break was in connection with the gun. He gave his hand away completely there. He said he threw the pistol into the river largely because of the missing cartridge, and when I told him the magazine was full, he explained that he had refilled it, so I wouldn't think it was anyone else's gun that was found. . . . It's plain to see what's the matter. He thinks Miss St. Clair is guilty, and is determined to take the blame."

"That's my impression," said Major Benson.

"And yet," mused Vance, "the Captain's attitude bothers me a little. There's no doubt he had something to do with the crime, else why should he have concealed his pistol the next day in Miss St. Clair's apartment? He's just the kind of silly beggar, d' ye see, who would threaten any man he thought had designs on his fiancée, and then carry out the threat if anything happened. And he has a guilty conscience—that's obvious. But for what? Certainly not the shooting. The crime was planned; and the Captain never plans. He's the kind that gets an idée fixe, girds up his loins, and does the deed in knightly fashion, prepared to take the cons'quences. That sort of chivalry, y' know, is sheer beau geste: its acolytes want everyone to know of their valor. And when they go forth to rid the world of a Don Juan, they're always clear-minded. The Captain, for instance, wouldn't have overlooked his Lady Fair's gloves and hand-bag,—he would have taken 'em away. In fact, it's just as certain he would have shot Benson as it is he didn't shoot him. That's the beetle in the amber. It's psychologically possible he


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 would have done it, and psychologically impossible he would have done it the way it was done."

He lit a cigarette and watched the drifting spirals of smoke.

"If it wasn't so fantastic, I'd say he started out to do it, and found it already done. And yet, that's about the size of it. It would account for Pfyfe's seeing him there, and for his secreting the gun at Miss St. Clair's the next day."

The telephone rang: Colonel Ostrander wanted to speak to the District Attorney. Markham, after a short conversation, turned a disgruntled look upon Vance.

"Your blood-thirsty friend wanted to know if I'd arrested anyone yet. He offered to confer more of his invaluable suggestions upon me in case I was still undecided as to who was guilty."

"I heard you thanking him fulsomely for something or other. . . . What did you give him to understand about your mental state?"

"That I was still in the dark."

Markham's answer was accompanied by a sombre, tired smile. It was his way of telling Vance that he had entirely rejected the idea of Captain Leacock's guilt.

The Major went to him and held out his hand.

"I know how you feel," he said. "This sort of thing is discouraging; but it's better that the guilty person should escape altogether than that an innocent man should be made to suffer. . . . Don't work too hard, and don't let these disappointments get to you. You'll soon hit on the right solution, and when you do" His jaw snapped shut, and


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 he uttered the rest of the sentence between clenched teeth. "—you'll meet with no opposition from me. I'll help you put the thing over."

He gave Markham a grim smile, and took up his hat.

"I'm going back to the office now. If you want me at any time, let me know. I may be able to help you—later on."

With a friendly, appreciative bow to Vance, he went out.

Markham sat in silence for several minutes.

"Damn it, Vance!" he said irritably. "This case gets more difficult by the hour. I feel worn out."

"You really shouldn't take it so seriously, old dear," Vance advised lightly. "It doesn't pay y' know, to worry over the trivia of existence.

Several million johnnies were killed in the war, and you don't let the fact bedevil your phagocytes or inflame your brain-cells. But when one rotter is mercifully shot in your district, you lie awake nights perspiring over it, what? My word! You're deucedly inconsistent."

"Consistency" began Markham; but Vance interrupted him.

"Now don't quote Emerson. I inf'nitely prefer Erasmus. Y' know, you ought to read his Praise of Folly; it would cheer you no end. That goaty old Dutch professor would never have grieved incon-


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 solably over the destruction of Alvin Le Chauve."

"I'm not a fruges consumere natus like you," snapped Markham. "I was elected to this office"

"Oh, quite,—'loved I not honor more' and all that," Vance chimed in. "But don't be so sens'tive. Even if the Captain has succeeded in bungling his way out of jail, you have at least five possibilities left. There's Mrs. Platz . . . and Pfyfe . . . and Colonel Ostrander . . . and Miss Hoffman . . . and Mrs. Banning.—I say! Why don't you arrest 'em all, one at a time, and get 'em to confess? Heath would go crazy with joy."

Markham was in too crestfallen a mood to resent this chaffing. Indeed, Vance's light-heartedness seemed to buoy him up.

"If you want the truth," he said; "that's exactly what I feel like doing. I am restrained merely by my indecision as to which one to arrest first."

"Stout fella!" Then Vance asked: "What are you going to do with the Captain now? It'll break his heart if you release him."

"His heart'll have to break, I'm afraid." Markham reached for the telephone. "I'd better see to the formalities now."

"Just a moment!" Vance put forth a restraining hand. "Don't end his rapturous martyrdom just yet. Let him be happy for another day at least. I've a notion he may be most useful to us, pining away in his lonely cell like the prisoner of Chillon."

Markham put down the telephone without a word. More and more, I had noticed, he was becoming inclined to accept Vance's leadership. This attitude was not merely the result of the hopeless confusion


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 in his mind, though his uncertainty probably influenced him to some extent; but it was due in large measure to the impression Vance had given him of knowing more than he cared to reveal.

"Have you tried to figure out just how Pfyfe and his Turtledove fit into the case?" Vance asked.

"Along with a few thousand other enigmas—yes," was the petulant reply. "But the more I try to reason it out, the more of a mystery the whole thing becomes."

"Loosely put, my dear Markham," criticized Vance. "There are no mysteries originating in human beings, y' know; there are only problems. And any problem originating in one human being can be solved by another human being. It merely requires a knowledge of the human mind, and the application of that knowledge to human acts. Simple, what?"

He glanced at the clock.

"I wonder how your Mr. Stitt is getting along with the Benson and Benson books. I await his report with anticipat'ry excitement."

This was too much for Markham. The wearing-down process of Vance's intimations and veiled innuendoes had at last dissipated his self-control. He bent forward and struck the desk angrily with his hand.

"I'm damned tired of this superior attitude of yours," he complained hotly. "Either you know something or you don't. If you don't know anything, do me the favor of dropping these insinuations of knowledge. If you do know anything, it's


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 up to you to tell me. You've been hinting around in one way or another ever since Benson was shot. If you've got any idea who killed him, I want to know it."

He leaned back, and took out a cigar. Not once did he look up as he carefully clipped the end and lit it. I think he was a little ashamed at having given way to his anger.

Vance had sat apparently unconcerned during the outburst. At length he stretched his legs, and gave Markham a long contemplative look.

"Y' know, Markham old bean, I don't blame you a bit for your unseemly ebullition. The situation has been most provokin'. But now, I fancy, the time has come to put an end to the comedietta. I really haven't been spoofing, y' know. The fact is, I've some most int'restin' ideas on the subject."

He stood up and yawned.

"It's a beastly hot day, but it must be done—eh, what?

I'm the noble youth, don't y' know. And you're the voice of duty—though you didn't exactly whisper, did you? . . . Was aber ist deine Pflicht? And Goethe answered: Die Forderung des Tages. But—deuce take it!—I wish the demand had come on a cooler day."

He handed Markham his hat.

"Come, Postume. To everything there is a sea-


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 son, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. You are through with the office for to-day,—inform Swacker of the fact, will you?—there's a dear! We attend upon a lady—Miss St. Clair, no less."

Markham realized that Vance's jesting manner was only the masquerade of a very serious purpose. Also, he knew that Vance would tell him what he knew or suspected only in his own way, and that, no matter how circuitous and unreasonable that way might appear, Vance had excellent reasons for following it. Furthermore, since the unmasking of Captain Leacock's purely fictitious confession, he was in a state of mind to follow any suggestion that held the faintest hope of getting at the truth. He therefore rang at once for Swacker, and informed him he was quitting the office for the day.

In ten minutes we were in the subway on our way to 94 Riverside Drive.


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"The quest for enlightenment upon which we are now embarked," said Vance, as we rode up town, "may prove a bit tedious. But you must exert your will-power, and bear with me. You can't imagine what a ticklish task I have on my hands. And it's not a pleasant one either. I'm a bit too young to be sentimental, and yet, d' ye know, I'm half inclined to let your culprit go."

"Would you mind telling me why we are calling on Miss St. Clair?" asked Markham resignedly.

Vance amiably complied.

"Not at all. Indeed, I deem it best for you to know. There are several points connected with the lady that need eluc'dation. First, there are the gloves and the hand-bag. Nor poppy nor mandragora shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou ow'dst yesterday until you have learned about those articles—eh, what?—Then, you recall, Miss Hoffman told us that the Major was lending an ear when a certain lady called upon Benson the day he was shot. I suspect that the visitor was Miss St. Clair; and I am rather curious to know what took place in the office that day, and why she came back


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 later. Also, why did she go to Benson's for tea that afternoon? And what part did the jewels play in the chit-chat?—But there are other items. For example: Why did the Captain take his gun to her? What makes him think she shot Benson?—he really believes it, y' know. And why did she think that he was guilty from the first?"

Markham looked sceptical.

"You expect her to tell us all this?"

"My hopes run high," returned Vance. "With her verray parfit gentil knight jailed as a self-confessed murderer, she will have nothing to lose by unburdening her soul. . . . But we must have no blustering. Your police brand of aggressive cross-examination will, I assure you, have no effect upon the lady."

"Just how do you propose to elicit your information?"

"With morbidezza, as the painters say. Much more refined and gentlemanly, y' know."

Markham considered a moment.

"I think I'll keep out of it, and leave the Socratic elenctuselenchus [sic] entirely to you."

"An extr'ordin'rily brilliant suggestion," said Vance.

When we arrived Markham announced over the house-telephone that he had come on a vitally important mission; and we were received by Miss St. Clair without a moment's delay. She was apprehensive, I imagine, concerning the whereabouts of Captain Leacock.

As she sat before us in her little drawing-room overlooking the Hudson, her face was quite pale, and


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 her hands, though tightly clasped, trembled a little. She had lost much of her cold reserve, and there were unmistakable signs of sleepless worry about her eyes.

Vance went directly to the point. His tone was almost flippant in its lightness: it at once relieved the tension of the atmosphere, and gave an air bordering on inconsequentiality to our visit.

"Captain Leacock has, I regret to inform you, very foolishly confessed to the murder of Mr. Benson. But we are not entirely satisfied with his bona fides. We are, alas! awash between Scylla and Charybdis. We can not decide whether the Captain is a deep-dyed villain or a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. His story of how he accomplished the dark deed is a bit sketchy: he is vague on certain essential details; and—what's most confusin'—he turned the lights off in Benson's hideous living-room by a switch which pos'tively doesn't exist. Cons'quently, the suspicion has crept into my mind that he has concocted this tale of derring-do in order to shield someone whom he really believes guilty."

He indicated Markham with a slight movement of the head.

"The District Attorney here does not wholly agree with me. But then, d' ye see, the legal mind is incredibly rigid and unreceptive once it has been invaded by a notion. You will remember that, because you were with Mr. Alvin Benson on his last evening on earth, and for other reasons equally irrelevant and trivial, Mr. Markham actu'lly concluded that you had had something to do with the gentleman's death."


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 He gave Markham a smile of waggish reproach, and went on:

"Since you, Miss St. Clair, are the only person whom Captain Leacock would shield so heroically, and since I, at least, am convinced of your own innocence, will you not clear up for us a few of those points where your orbit crossed that of Mr. Benson? . . . Such information cannot do the Captain or yourself any harm, and it very possibly will help to banish from Mr. Markham's mind his lingering doubts as to the Captain's innocence."

Vance's manner had an assuaging effect upon the woman; but I could see that Markham was boiling inwardly at Vance's animadversions on him, though he refrained from any interruption.

Miss St. Clair stared steadily at Vance for several minutes.

"I don't know why I should trust you, or even believe you," she said evenly; "but now that Captain Leacock has confessed,—I was afraid he was going to, when he last spoke to me,—I see no reason why I should not answer your questions. . . . Do you truly think he is innocent?"

The question was like an involuntary cry: her pent-up emotion had broken through her carapace of calm.

"I truly do," Vance avowed soberly. "Mr. Markham will tell you that before we left his office I pleaded with him to release Captain Leacock. It was with the hope that your explanations would convince him of the wisdom of such a course, that I urged him to come here."


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 Something in his tone and manner seemed to inspire her confidence.

"What do you wish to ask me?" she asked.

Vance cast another reproachful glance at Markham, who was restraining his outraged feelings only with difficulty; and then turned back to the woman.

"First of all, will you explain how your gloves and hand-bag found their way into Mr. Benson's house? Their presence there has been preying most distressin'ly on the District Attorney's mind."

She turned a direct, frank gaze upon Markham.

"I dined with Mr. Benson at his invitation. Things between us were not pleasant, and when we started for home, my resentment of his attitude increased. At Times Square I ordered the chauffeur to stop—I preferred returning home alone. In my anger and my haste to get away, I must have dropped my gloves and bag. It was not until Mr. Benson had driven off that I realized my loss, and having no money, I walked home. Since my things were found in Mr. Benson's house, he must have taken them there himself."

"Such was my own belief," said Vance. "And—my word!—it's a deucedly long walk out here, what?"

He turned to Markham with a tantalizing smile.

"Really, y' know, Miss St. Clair couldn't have been expected to reach here before one."

Markham, grim and resolute, made no reply.

"And now," pursued Vance, "I should love to know under what circumst'nces the invitation to dinner was extended."


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 A shadow darkened her face, but her voice remained even.

"I had been losing a lot of money through Mr. Benson's firm, and suddenly my intuition told me that he was purposely seeing to it that I did lose, and that he could, if he desired, help me to recoup." She dropped her eyes. "He had been annoying me with his attentions for some time; and I didn't put any despicable scheme past him. I went to his office, and told him quite plainly what I suspected. He replied that if I'd dine with him that night we could talk it over. I knew what his object was, but I was so desperate I decided to go anyway, hoping I might plead with him."

"And how did you happen to mention to Mr. Benson the exact time your little dinner party would terminate?"

She looked at Vance in astonishment, but answered unhesitatingly.

"He said something about—making a gay night of it; and then I told him—very emphatically—that if I went I would leave him sharply at midnight, as was my invariable rule on all parties. . . . You see," she added, "I study very hard at my singing, and going home at midnight, no matter what the occasion, is one of the sacrifices—or rather, restrictions—I impose on myself."

"Most commendable and most wise!" commented Vance. "Was this fact generally known among your acquaintances?"

"Oh yes. It even resulted in my being nicknamed Cinderella."


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 "Specifically, did Colonel Ostrander and Mr. Pfyfe know it?"

"Yes."

Vance thought a moment.

"How did you happen to go to tea at Mr. Benson's home the day of the murder, if you were to dine with him that night?"

A flush stained her cheeks.

"There was nothing wrong in that," she declared. "Somehow, after I had left Mr. Benson's office, I revolted against my decision to dine with him, and I went to his house—I had gone back to the office first, but he had left—to make a final appeal, and to beg him to release me from my promise. But he laughed the matter off, and after insisting that I have tea, sent me home in a taxicab to dress for dinner. He called for me about half past seven."

"And when you pleaded with him to release you from your promise you sought to frighten him by recalling Captain Leacock's threat; and he said it was only a bluff."

Again the woman's astonishment was manifest.

"Yes," she murmured.

Vance gave her a soothing smile.

"Colonel Ostrander told me he saw you and Mr. Benson at the Marseilles."

"Yes; and I was terribly ashamed. He knew what Mr. Benson was, and had warned me against him only a few days before."

"I was under the impression the Colonel and Mr. Benson were good friends."

"They were—up to a week ago. But the Colonel lost more money than I did in a stock pool which


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 Mr. Benson engineered recently, and he intimated to me very strongly that Mr. Benson had deliberately misadvised us to his own benefit. He didn't even speak to Mr. Benson that night at the Marseilles."

"What about these rich and precious stones that accompanied your tea with Mr. Benson?"

"Bribes," she answered; and her contemptuous smile was a more eloquent condemnation of Benson than if she had resorted to the bitterest castigation. "The gentleman sought to turn my head with them. I was offered a string of pearls to wear to dinner; but I declined them. And I was told that, if I saw things in the right light—or some such charming phrase—I could have jewels just like them for my very, very own—perhaps even those identical ones, on the twenty-first."

"Of course—the twenty-first," grinned Vance. "Markham, are you listening? On the twenty-first Leander's note falls due, and if it's not paid the jewels are forfeited."

He addressed himself again to Miss St. Clair.

"Did Mr. Benson have the jewels with him at dinner?"

"Oh, no! I think my refusal of the pearls rather discouraged him."

Vance paused, looking at her with ingratiating cordiality.

"Tell us now, please, of the gun episode—in your own words, as the lawyers say, hoping to entangle you later."

But she evidently feared no entanglement.

"The morning after the murder Captain Leacock came here and said he had gone to Mr. BensonBenson's [sic] house


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 about half past twelve with the intention of shooting him. But he had seen Mr. Pfyfe outside and, assuming he was calling, had given up the idea and gone home. I feared that Mr. Pfyfe had seen him, and I told him it would be safer to bring his pistol to me and to say, if questioned, that he'd lost it in France. . . . You see, I really thought he had shot Mr. Benson and was—well, lying like a gentleman, to spare my feelings. Then, when he took the pistol from me with the purpose of throwing it away altogether, I was even more certain of it."

She smiled faintly at Markham.

"That was why I refused to answer your questions. I wanted you to think that maybe I had done it, so you'd not suspect Captain Leacock."

"But he wasn't lying at all," said Vance.

"I know now that he wasn't. And I should have known it before. He'd never have brought the pistol to me if he'd been guilty."

A film came over her eyes.

"And—poor boy!—he confessed because he thought that I was guilty."

"That's precisely the harrowin' situation," nodded Vance. "But where did he think you had obtained a weapon?"

"I know many army men—friends of his and of Major Benson's. And last summer at the mountains I did considerable pistol practice for the fun of it. Oh, the idea was reasonable enough."

Vance rose and made a courtly bow.

"You've been most gracious—and most helpful," he said. "Y' see, Mr. Markham had various theories about the murder. The first, I believe, was that you


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 alone were the Madam Borgia. The second was that you and the Captain did the deed together—à quatre mains, as it were. The third was that the Captain pulled the trigger a cappella. And the legal mind is so exquisitely developed that it can believe in several conflicting theories at the same time. The sad thing about the present case is that Mr. Markham still leans toward the belief that both of you are guilty, individually and collectively. I tried to reason with him before coming here; but I failed. Therefore, I insisted upon his hearing from your own charming lips your story of the affair."

He went up to Markham who sat glaring at him with lips compressed.

"Well, old chap," he remarked pleasantly, "surely you are not going to persist in your obsession that either Miss St. Clair or Captain Leacock is guilty, what? . . . And won't you relent and unshackle the Captain as I begged you to?"

He extended his arms in a theatrical gesture of supplication.

Markham's wrath was at the breaking-point, but he got up deliberately and, going to the woman, held out his hand.

"Miss St. Clair," he said kindly—and again I was impressed by the bigness of the man—, "I wish to assure you that I have dismissed the idea of your guilt, and also Captain Leacock's, from what Mr. Vance terms my incredibly rigid and unreceptive mind. . . . I forgive him, however, because he has saved me from doing you a very grave injustice. And I will see that you have your Captain back as soon as the papers can be signed for his release."


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 As we walked out onto Riverside Drive, Markham turned savagely on Vance.

"So! I was keeping her precious Captain locked up, and you were pleading with me to let him go! You know damned well I didn't think either one of them was guilty—you—you lounge lizard!"

Vance sighed.

"Dear me! Don't you want to be of any help at all in this case?" he asked sadly.

"What good did it do you to make an ass of me in front of that woman?" spluttered Markham. "I can't see that you got anywhere, with all your tomfoolery."

"What!" Vance registered utter amazement. "The testimony you've heard to-day is going to help immeasurably in convicting the culprit. Furthermore, we now know about the gloves and hand-bag, and who the lady was that called at Benson's office, and what Miss St. Clair did between twelve and one, and why she dined alone with Alvin, and why she first had tea with him, and how the jewels came to be there, and why the Captain took her his gun and then threw it away, and why he confessed. . . . My word! Doesn't all this knowledge soothe you? It rids the situation of so much débris."

He stopped and lit a cigarette.

"The really important thing the lady told us was that her friends knew she invariably departed at midnight when she went out of an evening. Don't overlook or belittle that point, old dear; it's most pert'nent. I told you long ago that the person who shot Benson knew she was dining with him that night."


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 "You'll be telling me next you know who killed him," Markham scoffed.

Vance sent a ring of smoke circling upward.

"I've known all along who shot the blighter."

Markham snorted derisively.

"Indeed! And when did this revelation burst upon you?"

"Oh, not more than five minutes after I entered Benson's house that first morning," replied Vance.

"Well, well! Why didn't you confide in me, and avoid all these trying activities?"

"Quite impossible," Vance explained jocularly. "You were not ready to receive my apocryphal knowledge. It was first necess'ry to lead you patiently by the hand out of the various dark forests and morasses into which you insisted upon straying. You're so dev'lishly unimag'native, don't y' know."

A taxicab was passing, and he hailed it.

"Eighty-seven West Forty-eighth Street," he directed.

Then he took Markham's arm confidingly.

"Now for a brief chat with Mrs. Platz. And then—then I shall pour into your ear all my maidenly secrets."


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The housekeeper regarded our visit that afternoon with marked uneasiness. Though she was a large powerful woman, her body seemed to have lost some of its strength, and her face showed signs of prolonged anxiety. Snitkin informed us, when we entered, that she had carefully read every newspaper account of the progress of the case, and had questioned him interminably on the subject.

She entered the living-room with scarcely an acknowledgment of our presence, and took the chair Vance placed for her like a woman resigning herself to a dreaded but inevitable ordeal. When Vance looked at her keenly, she gave him a frightened glance and turned her face away, as if, in the second their eyes met, she had read his knowledge of some secret she had been jealously guarding.

Vance began his questioning without prelude or protasis.

"Mrs. Platz, was Mr. Benson very particular about his toupee—that is, did he often receive his friends without having it on?"

The woman appeared relieved.

"Oh, no, sir—never."


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 "Think back, Mrs. Platz. Has Mr. Benson never, to your knowledge, been in anyone's company without his toupee?"

She was silent for some time, her brows contracted.

"Once I saw him take off his wig and show it to Colonel Ostrander, an elderly gentleman who used to call here very often. But Colonel Ostrander was an old friend of his. He told me they lived together once."

"No one else?"

Again she frowned thoughtfully.

"No," she said, after several minutes.

"What about the tradespeople?"

"He was very particular about them. . . . And strangers, too," she added. "When he used to sit in here in hot weather without his wig, he always pulled the shade on that window." She pointed to the one nearest the hallway. "You can look in it from the steps."

"I'm glad you brought up that point," said Vance. "And anyone standing on the steps could tap on the window or the iron bars, and attract the attention of anyone in this room?"

"Oh, yes, sir—easily. I did it myself once, when I went on an errand and forgot my key."

"It's quite likely, don't you think, that the person who shot Mr. Benson obtained admittance that way?"

"Yes, sir." She grasped eagerly at the suggestion.

"The person would have had to know Mr. Benson pretty well to tap on the window instead of ringing the bell. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Platz?"


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 "Yes—sir." Her tone was doubtful: evidently the point was a little beyond her.

"If a stranger had tapped on the window would Mr. Benson have admitted him without his toupee?"

"Oh, no—he wouldn't have let a stranger in."

"You are sure the bell didn't ring that night?"

"Positive, sir." The answer was very emphatic.

"Is there a light on the front steps?"

"No, sir."

"If Mr. Benson had looked out of the window to see who was tapping, could he have recognized the person at night?"

The woman hesitated.

"I don't know—I don't think so."

"Is there any way you can see through the front door who is outside, without opening it?"

"No, sir. Sometimes I wished there was."

"Then, if the person knocked on the window, Mr. Benson must have recognized the voice?"

"It looks that way, sir."

"And you're certain no one could have got in without a key?"

"How could they? The door locks by itself."

"It's the regulation spring-lock, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open from either side even though it's latched."

"It did have a catch like that," she explained, "but Mr. Benson had it fixed so's it wouldn't work. He said it was too dangerous,—I might go out and leave the house unlocked."


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 Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting the front door.

"You're right, Mrs. Platz," he observed, when he came back. "Now tell me: are you quite sure no one had a key?"

"Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key."

Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.

"You said you left your bed-room door open on the night Mr. Benson was shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?"

"No, I 'most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night."

"Then it was merely an accident you left it open?"

"As you might say."

"If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot, do you think?"

"If I'd been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got heavy doors in these old houses, sir."

"And they're beautiful, too," commented Vance.

He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened into the hall.

"Y' know, Markham, our so-called civ'lization is nothing more than the persistent destruction of everything that's beautiful and enduring, and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald Spengler's Untergang des Abendlands—a most penetratin' document. I wonder some enterprisin' publisher hasn't embalmed it in our native argot. The whole history of this degen'rate era we call


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 modern civ'lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door, for instance, with its bevelled panels and ornamented bolection, and its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by the thousand to-day. ''Sic transit. . . ."''

He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs. Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.

"What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to dinner?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir," she answered nervously. "He left them on the table there."

"Did you see them after he had gone?"

"Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I'd better not touch them."

"And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson left?"

"No, sir."

"You're quite sure?"

"I'm positive, sir."

Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.

"Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?"

The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.

Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain control of herself, he said:

"I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin' daughter recently."


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 "My daughter. . . ?" the woman managed to stammer.

"Miss Hoffman, y' know—the attractive young lady with the blond hair. Mr. Benson's secret'ry."

The woman sat erect, and spoke through clamped teeth.

"She's not my daughter."

"Now, now, Mrs. Platz!" Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child. "Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz? I'm sure she's a very nice girl. And you really can't blame her for preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. Platz means generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and sometimes a Platz is a bun or a yeast-cake. But a Hoffman is a courtier—much nicer than being a yeast-cake, what?"

He smiled engagingly, and his manner had a quieting effect upon her.

"It isn't that, sir," she said, looking at him appealingly. "I made her take the name. In this country any girl who's smart can get to be a lady, if she's given a chance. And"

"I understand perfectly," Vance interposed pleasantly. "Miss Hoffman is clever, and you feared that the fact of your being a housekeeper, if it became known, would stand in the way of her success. So you elim'nated yourself, as it were, for her welfare.


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 I think it was very generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?"

"Yes, sir—in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week." Her voice was barely audible.

"Of course—as often as you can, I'm sure. . . . Did you take the position as Mr. Benson's housekeeper because she was his secret'ry?"

She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes.

"Yes, sir—I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work."

"And you wanted to be here to protect her?"

"Yes, sir—that was it."

"Why were you so worried the morning after the murder, when Mr. Markham here asked you if Mr. Benson kept any fire-arms around the house?"

The woman shifted her gaze.

"I—wasn't worried."

"Yes, you were, Mrs. Platz. And I'll tell you why. You were afraid we might think Miss Hoffman shot him."

"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't!" she cried. "My girl wasn't even here that night—I swear it!—she wasn't here. . . ."

She was badly shaken: the nervous tension of a week had snapped, and she looked helplessly about her.

"Come, come, Mrs. Platz," pleaded Vance consolingly. "No one believes for a moment that Miss Hoffman had a hand in Mr. Benson's death."

The woman peered searchingly into his face. At first she was loath to believe him,—it was evident that fear had long been preying on her mind,—and it took


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 him fully a quarter of an hour to convince her that what he had said was true. When, finally, we left the house she was in a comparatively peaceful state of mind.

On our way to the Stuyvesant Club Markham was silent, completely engrossed with his thoughts. It was evident that the new facts educed by the interview with Mrs. Platz troubled him considerably.

Vance sat smoking dreamily, turning his head now and then to inspect the buildings we passed. We drove east through Forty-eighth Street, and when we came abreast of the New York Bible Society House he ordered the chauffeur to stop, and insisted that we admire it.

"Christianity," he remarked, "has almost vindicated itself by its architecture alone. With few exceptions, the only buildings in this city that are not eyesores, are the churches and their allied structures. The American æsthetic credo is: Whatever's big is beautiful. These depressin' gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in 'em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshipped by Americans simply because they're huge. A box with forty rows of holes is twice as beautiful as a box with twenty rows. Simple formula, what? . . . Look at this little five-story affair across the street. It's inf'nitely lovelier—and more impressive, too—than any skyscraper in the city. . . ."

Vance referred but once to the crime during our ride to the Club, and then only indirectly.

"Kind hearts, y' know, Markham, are more than coronets. I've done a good deed to-day, and I feel pos'tively virtuous. Frau Platz will schlafen much


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 better to-night. She has been frightfully upset about little Gretchen. She's a doughty old soul; motherly and all that. And she couldn't bear to think of the future Lady Vere de Vere being suspected. . . . Wonder why she worried so?" And he gave Markham a sly look.

Nothing further was said until after dinner, which we ate in the Roof Garden. We had pushed back our chairs, and sat looking out over the tree-tops of Madison Square.

"Now, Markham," said Vance, "give over all prejudices, and consider the situation judiciously—as you lawyers euphemistically put it. . . . To begin with, we now know why Mrs. Platz was so worried at your question regarding fire-arms, and why she was upset by my ref'rence to her personal int'rest in Benson's tea-companion. So, those two mysteries are elim'nated. . . ."

"How did you find out about her relation to the girl?" interjected Markham.

T was my ogling did it." Vance gave him a reproving look. "You recall that I 'ogled' the young lady at our first meeting,—but I forgive you. . . . And you remember our little discussion about cranial idiosyncrasies? Miss Hoffman, I noticed at once, possessed all the physical formations of Benson's housekeeper. She was brachycephalic; she had over-articulated cheek-bones, an orthognathous jaw, a low flat parietal structure, and a mesorrhinian nose. . . . Then I looked for her ear, for I had noted that Mrs. Platz had the pointed, lobeless, 'satyr' ear—sometimes called the Darwin ear. These ears run in families; and when I saw that Miss Hoff-


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 man's were of the same type, even though modified, I was fairly certain of the relationship. But there were other similarities—in pigment, for instance; and in height,—both are tall, y' know. And the central masses of each were very large in comparison with the peripheral masses: the shoulders were narrow and the wrists and ankles small, while the hips were bulky. . . . That Hoffman was Platz's maiden name was only a guess. But it didn't matter."

Vance adjusted himself more comfortably in his chair.

"Now for your judicial considerations. . . . First, let us assume that at a little before half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth the villain came to Benson's house, saw the light in the living-room, tapped on the window, and was instantly admitted. . . . What, would you say, do these assumptions indicate regarding the visitor?"

"Merely that Benson was acquainted with him," returned Markham. "But that doesn't help us any. We can't extend the sus. per coll. to everybody the man knew."

"The indications go much further than that, old chap," Vance retorted. "They show unmistakably that Benson's murderer was a most intimate crony, or, at least, a person before whom he didn't care how he looked. The absence of the toupee, as I once suggested to you, was a prime essential of the situation. A toupee, don't y' know, is the sartorial sine qua non of every middle-aged Beau Brummel afflicted with baldness. You heard Mrs. Platz on the subject. Do you think for a second that Benson, who hid his


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 hirsute deficiency even from the grocer's boy, would visit with a mere acquaintance thus bereft of his crowning glory? And besides being thus denuded, he was without his full complement of teeth. Moreover, he was without collar or tie, and attired in an old smoking-jacket and bed-room slippers! Picture the spectacle, my dear fellow. . . . A man does not look fascinatin' without his collar and with his shirt-band and gold stud exposed. Thus attired he is the equiv'lent of a lady in curl-papers. . . . How many men do you think Benson knew with whom he would have sat down to a tête-à-tête in this undress condition?"

"Three or four, perhaps," answered Markham. "But I can't arrest them all."

"I'm sure you would if you could. But it won't be necess'ry."

Vance selected another cigarette from his case, and went on:

"There are other helpful indications, y' know. For instance, the murderer was fairly well acquainted with Benson's domestic arrangements. He must have known that the housekeeper slept a good distance from the living-room and would not be startled by the shot if her door was closed as usual. Also, he must have known there was no one else in the house at that hour. And another thing: don't forget that his voice was perfectly familiar to Benson. If there had been the slightest doubt about it Benson would not have let him in, in view of his natural fear of house-breakers, and with the Captain's threat hanging over him."


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 "That's a tenable hypothesis. . . . What else?"

"The jewels, Markham—those orators of love. Have you thought of them? They were on the center-table when Benson came home that night; and they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seems inev'table that the murderer took 'em—eh, what? . . . And may they not have been one reason for the murderer's coming there that night? If so, who of Benson's most intimate personæ gratæ knew of their presence in the house? And who wanted 'em particularly?"

"Exactly, Vance." Markham nodded his head slowly. "You've hit it. I've had an uneasy feeling about Pfyfe right along. I was on the point of ordering his arrest to-day when Heath brought word of Leacock's confession; and then, when that blew up, my suspicions reverted to him. I said nothing this afternoon because I wanted to see where your ideas had led you. What you've been saying checks up perfectly with my own notions. Pfyfe's our man"

He brought the front legs of his chair down suddenly.

"And now, damn it, you've let him get away from us!"

"Don't fret, old dear," said Vance. "He's safe with Mrs. Pfyfe, I fancy. And anyhow, your friend, Mr. Ben Hanlon, is well versed in retrieving fugitives. . . . Let the harassed Leander alone for the moment. You don't need him to-night—and to-morrow you won't want him."

Markham wheeled about.


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 "What's that!—I won't want him? ... .. [sic] And why, pray?"

"Well," Vance explained indolently; "he hasn't a congenial and lovable nature, has he? And he's not exactly an object of blindin' beauty. I shouldn't want him around me more than was necess'ry, don't y' know. . . . Incidentally, he's not guilty."

Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance searchingly for a full minute.

"I don't follow you," he said. "If you think Pfyfe's innocent, who, in God's name, do you think is guilty?"

Vance glanced at his watch.

"Come to my house to-morrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I'll tell you who shot Benson."

Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimize, his statement.

"Why not tell me now?" he asked.

"Awf'lly sorry, y' know," apologized Vance; "but I'm going to the Philharmonic's 'special' to-night. They're playing César Franck's D-minor, and Stransky's temp'rament is em'nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities. . . . You'd better come along, old man. Soothin' to the nerves and all that."

"Not me!" grumbled Markham. "What I need is a brandy-and-soda."

He walked down with us to the taxicab.

"Come at nine to-morrow," said Vance, as we took


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 our seats. "Let the office wait a bit. And don't forget to 'phone Heath for those alibis."

Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car.

"And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz is?"


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Markham came to Vance's apartment at promptly nine o'clock the next morning. He was in bad humor.

"Now, see here, Vance," he said, as soon as he was seated at the table; "I want to know what was the meaning of your parting words last night."

"Eat your melon, old dear," said Vance. "It comes from northern Brazil, and is very delicious. But don't devitalize its flavor with pepper or salt. An amazin' practice, that,—though not as amazin' as stuffing a melon with ice-cream. The American does the most dumbfoundin' things with ice-cream. He puts it on pie; he puts it in soda-water; he encases it in hard chocolate like a bon-bon; he puts it between sweet biscuits and calls the result an ice-cream sandwich; he even uses it instead of whipped cream in a Charlotte Russe. . . ."

"What I want to know" began Markham; but Vance did not permit him to finish.

"It's surprisin', y' know, the erroneous ideas people have about melons. There are only two species—the muskmelon and the watermelon. All breakfast melons—like cantaloups, citrons, nut-


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 megs, Cassabas, and Honeydews—are varieties of the muskmelon. But people have the notion, d' ye see, that cantaloup is a generic term. Philadelphians call all melons cantaloups; whereas this type of muskmelon was first cultivated in Cantalupo, Italy. . . ."

"Very interesting," said Markham, with only partly disguised impatience. "Did you intend by your remark last night"

"And after the melon, Currie has prepared a special dish for you. It's my own gustat'ry chef-d'œuvre—with Currie's collaboration, of course. I've spent months on its conception—composing and organizing it, so to speak. I haven't named it yet,—perhaps you can suggest a fitting appellation. . . . To achieve this dish, one first chops up a hard-boiled egg and mixes it with grated Port du Salut cheese, adding a soupçon of tarragon. This paste is then enclosed in a filet of white perch—like a French pancake. It is tied with silk, rolled in a specially prepared almond batter, and cooked in sweet butter.—That, of course, is the barest outline of its manufacture, with all the truly exquisite details omitted."

"It sounds appetizing." Markham's tone was devoid of enthusiasm. "But I didn't come here for a cooking lesson."

"Y' know, you underestimate the importance of your ventral pleasures," pursued Vance. "Eating is the one infallible guide to a people's intellectual advancement, as well as the inev'table gauge of the individual's temp'rament. The savage cooked and ate like a savage. In the early days of the human race, mankind was cursed with one vast epidemic of


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 indigestion. There's where his devils and demons and ideas of hell came from: they were the nightmares of his dyspepsia. Then, as man began to master the technique of cooking, he became civilized; and when he achieved the highest pinnacles of the culin'ry art, he also achieved the highest pinnacles of cultural and intellectual glory. When the art of the gourmet retrogressed, so did man. The tasteless, standardized cookery of America is typical of our decadence. A perfectly blended soup, Markham, is more ennoblin' than Beethoven's C-minor Symphony. . . ."

Markham listened stolidly to Vance's chatter during breakfast. He made several attempts to bring up the subject of the crime, but Vance glibly ignored each essay. It was not until Currie had cleared away the dishes that he referred to the object of Markham's visit.

"Did you bring the alibi reports?" was his first question.

Markham nodded.

"And it took me two hours to find Heath after you'd gone last night."

"Sad," breathed Vance.

He went to the desk, and took a closely written double sheet of foolscap from one of the compartments.

"I wish you'd glance this over, and give me your learned opinion," he said, handing the paper to Markham. "I prepared it last night after the concert."

I later took possession of the document, and filed


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 it with my other notes and papers pertaining to the Benson case. The following is a verbatim copy:

Mrs. Anna Platz shot and killed Alvin Benson on the night of June 13th.

She lived in the house, and admitted being there at the time the shot was fired.

She was alone in the house with Benson.

All the windows were either barred or locked on the inside. The front door was locked. There was no other means of ingress.

Her presence in the living-room was natural: she might have entered ostensibly to ask Benson a domestic question.

Her standing directly in front of him would not necessarily have caused him to look up. Hence, his reading attitude.

Who else could have come so close to him for the purpose of shooting him, without attracting his attention?

He would not have cared how he appeared before his housekeeper. He had become accustomed to being seen by her without his teeth and toupee and in négligé condition.

Living in the house, she was able to choose a propitious moment for the crime.


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She waited up for him. Despite her denial, he might have told her when he would return.

When he came in alone and changed to his smoking-jacket, she knew he was not expecting any late visitors.

She chose a time shortly after his return because it would appear that he had brought someone home with him, and that this other person had killed him.

She used Benson's own gun. Benson undoubtedly had more than one; for he would have been more likely to keep a gun in his bed-room than in his living-room; and since a Smith and Wesson was found in the living-room, there probably was another in the bed-room.

Being his housekeeper, she knew of the gun upstairs. After he had gone down to the living-room to read, she secured it, and took it with her, concealed under her apron.

She threw the gun away or hid it after the shooting. She had all night in which to dispose of it.

She was frightened when asked what fire-arms Benson kept about the house, for she was not sure whether or not we knew of the gun in the bed-room.


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She took the position of housekeeper because she feared Benson's conduct toward her daughter. She always listened when her daughter came to his house at night to work.

Recently she discovered that Benson had dishonorable intentions, and believed her daughter to be in imminent danger.

A mother who would sacrifice herself for her daughter's future, as she has done, would not hesitate at killing to save her.

And: there are the jewels. She has them hidden and is keeping them for her daughter. Would Benson have gone out and left them on the table? And if he had put them away, who but she, familiar with the house and having plenty of time, could have found them?

She lied about St. Clair's coming to tea, explaining later that she knew St. Clair could not have had anything to do with the crime. Was this feminine intuition? No. She could know St. Clair was innocent only because she herself was guilty. She was too motherly to want an innocent person suspected.

She was markedly frightened yesterday when her daughter's name was mentioned, because she feared the discovery of the re-


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 lationship might reveal her motive for shooting Benson.

She admitted hearing the shot, because, if she had denied it, a test might have proved that a shot in the living-room would have sounded loudly in her room; and this would have aroused suspicion against her. Does a person, when awakened, turn on the lights and determine the exact hour? And if she had heard a report which sounded like a shot being fired in the house, would she not have investigated, or given an alarm?

When first interviewed, she showed plainly she disliked Benson.

Her apprehension has been pronounced each time she has been questioned.

She is the hard-headed, shrewd, determined German type, who could both plan and perform such a crime.

She is about five feet, ten inches tall—the demonstrated height of the murderer.

Markham read this précis through several times,—he was fully fifteen minutes at the task,—and when he had finished he sat silent for ten minutes more. Then he rose and walked up and down the room.

"Not a fancy legal document, that," remarked Vance. "But I think even a Grand Juror could understand it. You, of course, can rearrange and


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 elab'rate it, and bedeck it with innum'rable meaningless phrases and recondite legal idioms."

Markham did not answer at once. He paused by the French windows and looked down into the street. Then he said:

"Yes, I think you've made out a case. . . . Extraordinary! I've wondered from the first what you were getting at; and your questioning of Platz yesterday impressed me as pointless. I'll admit it never occurred to me to suspect her. Benson must have given her good cause."

He turned and came slowly toward us, his head down, his hands behind him.

"I don't like the idea of arresting her. . . . Funny I never thought of her in connection with it."

He stopped in front of Vance.

"And you yourself didn't think of her at first, despite your boast that you knew who did it after you'd been in Benson's house five minutes."

Vance smiled mirthfully, and sprawled in his chair.

Markham became indignant.

"Damn it! You told me the next day that no woman could have done it, no matter what evidence was adduced, and harangued me about art and psychology and God knows what."

"Quite right," murmured Vance, still smiling. "No woman did it."

"No woman did it!" Markham's gorge was rising rapidly.

"Oh, dear no!"

He pointed to the sheet of paper in Markham's hand.


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 "That's just a bit of spoofing, don't y' know. . . . Poor old Mrs. Platz!—she's as innocent as a lamb."

Markham threw the paper on the table and sat down. I had never seen him so furious; but he controlled himself admirably.

"Y' see, my dear old bean," explained Vance, in his unemotional drawl, "I had an irresistible longing to demonstrate to you how utterly silly your circumst'ntial and material evidence is. I'm rather proud, y' know, of my case against Mrs. Platz. I'm sure you could convict her on the strength of it. But, like the whole theory of your exalted law, it's wholly specious and erroneous. . . . Circumst'ntial evidence, Markham, is the utt'rest tommyrot imag'nable. Its theory is not unlike that of our present-day democracy. The democratic theory is that if you accumulate enough ignorance at the polls you produce intelligence; and the theory of circumst'ntial evidence is that if you accumulate a sufficient number of weak links you produce a strong chain."

"Did you get me here this morning," demanded Markham coldly, "to give me a dissertation on legal theory?"

"Oh, no," Vance blithely assured him. "But I simply must prepare you for the acceptance of my revelation; for I haven't a scrap of material or circumst'ntial evidence against the guilty man. And yet, Markham, I know he's guilty as well as I know you're sitting in that chair planning how you can torture and kill me without being punished."

"If you have no evidence, how did you arrive at your conclusion?" Markham's tone was vindictive.

"Solely by psychological analysis—by what might


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 be called the science of personal possibilities. A man's psychological nature is as clear a brand to one who can read it as was Hester Prynne's scarlet letter. . . . I never read Hawthorne, by the bye. I can't abide the New England temp'rament."

Markham set his jaw, and gave Vance a look of arctic ferocity.

"You expect me to go into court, I suppose, leading your victim by the arm, and say to the Judge: 'Here's the man that shot Alvin Benson. I have no evidence against him, but I want you to sentence him to death, because my brilliant and sagacious friend, Mr. Philo Vance, the inventor of stuffed perch, says this man has a wicked nature.

Vance gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

"I sha'n't wither away with grief if you don't even arrest the guilty man. But I thought it no more than humane to tell you who he was, if only to stop you from chivvying all these innocent people."

"All right—tell me; and let me get on about my business."

I don't believe there was any longer a question in Markham's mind that Vance actually knew who had killed Benson. But it was not until considerably later in the morning that he fully understood why Vance had kept him for days upon tenter-hooks. When, at last, he did understand it, he forgave Vance; but at the moment he was angered to the limit of his control.

"There are one or two things that must be done before I can reveal the gentleman's name," Vance told him. "First, let me have a peep at those alibis."


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 Markham took from his pocket a sheaf of typewritten pages and passed them over.

Vance adjusted his monocle, and read through them carefully. Then he stepped out of the room; and I heard him telephoning. When he returned he re-read the reports. One in particular he lingered over, as if weighing its possibilities.

"There's a chance, y' know," he murmured at length, gazing indecisively into the fireplace.

He glanced at the report again.

"I see here," he said, "that Colonel Ostrander, accompanied by a Bronx alderman named Moriarty, attended the Midnight Follies at the Piccadilly Theatre in Forty-seventh Street on the night of the thirteenth, arriving there a little before twelve and remaining through the performance, which was over about half past two a.m. . . . Are you acquainted with this particular alderman?"

Markham's eyes lifted sharply to the other's face.

"I've met Mr. Moriarty. What about him?" I thought I detected a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

"Where do Bronx aldermen loll about in the forenoons?" asked Vance.

"At home, I should say. Or possibly at the Samoset Club. . . . Sometimes they have business at City Hall."

"My word!—such unseemly activity for a politician! . . . Would you mind ascertaining if Mr. Moriarty is at home or at his club. If it's not too much bother, I'd like to have a brief word with him."

Markham gave Vance a penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he went to the telephone in the den.


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 "Mr. Moriarty was at home, about to leave for City Hall," he announced, on returning. "I asked him to drop by here on his way down town."

"I do hope he doesn't disappoint us," sighed Vance. "But it's worth trying."

"Are you composing a charade?" asked Markham; but there was neither humor nor good-nature in the question.

Pon my word, old man, I'm not trying to confuse the main issue," said Vance. "Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen'rously supplied,—it's more desirable than Norman blood, y' know. I'll give you the guilty man before the morning's over. But, d' ye see, I must make sure that you'll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof'table in paving the way for my coup de boutoir.. . . An alibi—as I recently confided to you—is a tricky and dang'rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion-picture theatre and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob'bly at Benson's visiting mama until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection. . . . On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast-iron,—silly metaphor: cast iron's easily broken—, and I happen to know one of 'em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it's most necess'ry that these alibis be minutely inspected."

Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He


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 was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—, and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.

Markham introduced him, and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.

"One of the men from the Homicide Bureau," answered Moriarty, "was asking me about the matter, only yesterday."

"We have the report," said Vance, "but it's a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?"

"The Colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there, and went to the Piccadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two-thirty. I walked to the Colonel's apartment with him, had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three-thirty."

"You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theatre."

"That's correct."

"Did you and the Colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?"

"No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the Colonel excused himself and went to the wash-room. After the second act, the Colonel and I stepped outside into the alley-way and had a smoke."

"What time, would you say, was the first act over?"

"Twelve-thirty or thereabouts."

"And where is this alley-way situated?" asked


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 Vance. "As I recall, it runs along the side of the theatre to the street."

"You're right."

"And isn't there an 'exit' door very near the boxes, which leads into the alley-way?"

"There is. We used it that night."

"How long was the Colonel gone after the first act?"

"A few minutes—I couldn't say exactly."

"Had he returned when the curtain went up on the second act?"

Moriarty reflected.

"I don't believe he had. I think he came back a few minutes after the act began."

"Ten minutes?"

"I couldn't say. Certainly no more."

"Then, allowing for a ten-minute intermission, the Colonel might have been away twenty minutes?"

"Yes—it's possible."

This ended the interview; and when Moriarty had gone, Vance lay back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully.

"Surprisin' luck!" he commented. "The Piccadilly Theatre, y' know, is practically round the corner from Benson's house. You grasp the possibilities of the situation, what? . . . The Colonel invites an alderman to the Midnight Follies, and gets box seats near an exit giving on an alley. At a little before half past twelve he leaves the box, sneaks out via the alley, goes to Benson's, taps and is admitted, shoots his man, and hurries back to the theatre. Twenty minutes would have been ample."

Markham straightened up, but made no comment.


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 "And now," continued Vance, "let's look at the indicat'ry circumst'nces and the confirmat'ry facts. . . . Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson's manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn't spoken to Benson for a week; so it's plain there was bad blood between 'em.—He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre.—Being an army officer, he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot.—He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn't seem to care who; and he even 'phoned you to inquire about it.—He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He'd known Benson int'mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him.—Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house: he no doubt had slept there many a time when showing his old pal the wonders of New York's night life. . . . How does all that appeal to you?"

Markham had risen, and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.

"So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they knew him, and inviting him to lunch? . . . What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?"

"Guilty!" exclaimed Vance. "That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion's


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 prepost'rous. I'm sure he went to the wash-room that night to comb his eyebrows and arrange his tie. Sitting, as he was, in a box, the gels on the stage could see him, y' know."

Markham halted abruptly. An ugly color crept into his cheeks, and his eyes blazed. But before he could speak Vance went on, with serene indifference to his anger.

"And I played in the most astonishin' luck. Still, he's just the kind of ancient popinjay who'd go to the wash-room and dandify himself,—I rather counted on that, don't y' know. . . . My word! We've made amazin' progress this morning, despite your injured feelings. You now have five different people, any one of whom you can, with a little legal ingenuity, convict of the crime,—in any event, you can get indictments against 'em."

He leaned his head back meditatively.

"First, there's Miss St. Clair. You were quite pos'tive she did the deed, and you told the Major you were all ready to arrest her. My demonstration of the murderer's height could be thrown out on the grounds that it was intelligent and conclusive, and therefore had no place in a court of law. I'm sure the judge would concur.—Secondly, I give you Captain Leacock. I actu'lly had to use physical force to keep you from jailing the chap. You had a beautiful case against him—to say nothing of his delightful confession. And if you met with any diff'culties, he'd help you out: he'd adore having you convict him.—Thirdly, I submit Leander the Lovely. You had a better case against him than against almost any one of the others—a perfect wealth of circumst'ntial evi-


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 dence—an embarras de richesse, in fact. And any jury would delight in convicting him,—I would, myself, if only for the way he dresses.—Fourthly, I point with pride to Mrs. Platz. Another perfect circumst'ntial case, fairly bulging with clues and inf'rences and legal whatnots.—Fifthly, I present the Colonel. I have just rehearsed your case against him; and I could elab'rate it touchin'ly, given a little more time."

He paused, and gave Markham a smile of cynical affability.

"Observe, please, that each member of this quintette meets all the demands of presumptive guilt: each one fulfills the legal requirements as to time, place, opportunity, means, motive, and conduct. The only drawback, d' ye see, is that all five are quite innocent. A most discomposin' fact—but there you are. . . . Now, if all the people against whom there's the slightest suspicion, are innocent, what's to be done? . . . Annoyin', ain't it?"

He picked up the alibi reports.

"There's pos'tively nothing to be done but to go on checking up these alibis."

I could not imagine what goal he was trying to reach by these apparently irrelevant digressions; and Markham, too, was mystified. But neither of us doubted for a moment that there was method in his madness.

"Let's see," he mused. "The Major's is the next in order. What do you say to tackling it? It shouldn't take long: he lives near here; and the entire alibi hinges on the evidence of the night-boy at his apartment-house.—Come!" He got up.


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 'How"How [sic] do you know the boy is there now?" objected Markham.

"I 'phoned a while ago and found out."

"But this is damned nonsense!"

Vance now had Markham by the arm, playfully urging him toward the door.

"Oh, undoubtedly," he agreed. "But I've often told you, old dear, you take life much too seriously."

Markham, protesting vigorously, held back, and endeavored to disengage his arm from the other's grip. But Vance was determined; and after a somewhat heated dispute, Markham gave in.

"I'm about through with this hocus-pocus," he growled, as we got into a taxicab.

"I'm through already," said Vance.


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The Chatham Arms, where Major Benson lived, was a small exclusive bachelor apartment-house in Forty-sixth Street, midway between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The entrance, set in a simple and dignified façade, was flush with the street, and only two steps above the pavement. The front door opened into a narrow hallway with a small reception room, like a cul-de-sac, on the left. At the rear could be seen the elevator; and beside it, tucked under a narrow flight of iron stairs which led round the elevator shaft, was a telephone switchboard.

When we arrived two youths in uniform were on duty, one lounging in the door of the elevator, the other seated at the switchboard.

Vance halted Markham near the entrance.

"One of these boys, I was informed over the telephone, was on duty the night of the thirteenth. Find out which one it was, and scare him into submission by your exalted title of District Attorney. Then turn him over to me."

Reluctantly Markham walked down the hallway. After a brief interrogation of the boys, he led one


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 of them into the reception room, and peremptorily explained what he wanted.

Vance began his questioning with the confident air of one who has no doubt whatever as to another's exact knowledge.

"What time did Major Benson get home the night his brother was shot?"

The boy's eyes opened wide.

"He came in about 'leven—right after show time," he answered, with only a momentary hesitation.

(I have set down the rest of the questions and answers in dramatic-dialogue form, for purposes of space economy.)

He spoke to you, I suppose?

Yes, sir. He told me he'd been to the theatre, and said what a rotten show it was—and that he had an awful headache.

How do you happen to remember so well what he said a week ago?

Why, his brother was murdered that night!

And the murder caused so much excitement that you naturally recalled everything that happened at the time in connection with Major Benson?

Sure—he was the murdered guy's brother.

When he came in that night did he say anything about the day of the month?

Nothin' except that he guessed his bad luck in pickin' a bum show was on account of it bein' the thirteenth.

Did he say anything else?

(grinning): He said he'd make the thir-


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 teenth my lucky day, and he gave me all the silver he had in his pocket—nickels and dimes and quarters and one fifty-cent piece.

How much altogether?

Three dollars and forty-five cents.

And then he went to his room?

Yes, sir—I took him up. He lives on the third floor.

Did he go out again later?

No, sir.

How do you know?

I'd 've seen him. I was either answerin' the switchboard or runnin' the elevator all night. He couldn't 've got out without my seein' him.

Were you alone on duty?

After ten o'clock there's never but one boy on.

And there's no other way a person could leave the house except by the front door?

No, sir.

When did you next see Major Benson?

(after thinking a moment): He rang for some cracked ice, and I took it up.

What time?

Why—I don't know exactly. . . . Yes, I do! It was half past twelve.

(smiling faintly): He asked you the time, perhaps?

Yes, sir, he did. He asked me to look at his clock in his parlor.

How did he happen to do that?

Well, I took up the ice, and he was in bed; and he asked me to put it in his pitcher in the parlor.