The day broke dark and threatening. A damp chill was in the air; and the leaden skies clung close to the earth with suffocating menace. The weather was like a symbol of our gloomy spirits.
Vance rose early, and, though he said little, I knew the case was preying on his mind. After breakfast he sat before the fire for over an hour sipping his coffee and smoking. Then he made an attempt to interest himself in an old French edition of “Till Ulenspiegel,” but, failing, took down Volume VII of Osler’s “Modern Medicine” and turned to Buzzard’s article on myelitis. For an hour he read with despairing concentration. At last he returned the book to the shelf.
At half past eleven Markham telephoned to inform us that he was leaving the office immediately for the Greene mansion and would stop en route to pick us up. He refused to say more, and hung up the receiver abruptly.
It wanted ten minutes of being noon when he arrived; and his expression of grim discouragement told us more plainly than words that another tragedy had occurred. We had on our coats in readiness and accompanied him at once to the car.
“And who is it this time?” asked Vance, as we swung into Park Avenue.
“Ada.” Markham spoke bitterly through his teeth.
“I was afraid of that, after what she told us yesterday.—With poison, I suppose.”
“Yes—the morphine.”
“Still, it’s an easier death than strychnine-poisoning.”
“She’s not dead, thank God!” said Markham. “That is, she was still alive when Heath phoned.”
“Heath? Was he at the house?”
“No. The nurse notified him at the Homicide Bureau, and he phoned me from there. He’ll probably be at the Greenes’ when we arrive.”
“You say she isn’t dead?”
“Drumm—he’s the official police surgeon Moran stationed in the Narcoss Flats—got there immediately, and had managed to keep her alive up to the time the nurse phoned.”
“Sproot’s signal worked all right, then?”
“Apparently. And I want to say, Vance, that I’m damned grateful to you for that suggestion to have a doctor on hand.”
When we arrived at the Greene mansion Heath, who had been watching for us, opened the door.
“She ain’t dead,” he greeted us in a stage whisper; and then drew us into the reception-room to explain his secretive manner. “Nobody in the house except Sproot and O’Brien knows about this poisoning yet. Sproot found her, and then pulled down all the front curtains in this room—which was the signal agreed on. When Doc Drumm hopped across Sproot was waiting with the door open, and took him upstairs without anybody seeing him. The doc sent for O’Brien, and after they’d worked on the girl for a while he told her to notify the Bureau. They’re both up in the room now with the doors locked.”
“You did right in keeping the thing quiet,” Markham told him. “If Ada recovers we can hush it up and perhaps learn something from her.”
“That’s what I was thinking, sir. I told Sproot I’d wring his scrawny neck if he spilled anything to anybody.”
“And,” added Vance, “he bowed politely and said ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“You bet your life he did!”
“Where is the rest of the household at present?” Markham asked.
“Miss Sibella’s in her room. She had breakfast in bed at half past ten and told the maid she was going back to sleep. The old lady’s also asleep. The maid and the cook are in the back of the house somewhere.”
“Has Von Blon been here this morning?” put in Vance.
“Sure he’s been here—he comes regular. O’Brien said he called at ten, sat with the old lady about an hour, and then went away.”
“And he hasn’t been notified about the morphine?”
“What’s the use? Drumm’s a good doctor, and Von Blon might blab about it to Sibella or somebody.”
“Quite right.” Vance nodded his approval.
We re-entered the hall and divested ourselves of our wraps.
“While we’re waiting for Doctor Drumm,” said Markham, “we might as well find out what Sproot knows.”
We went into the drawing-room, and Heath yanked the bell-cord. The old butler came directly and stood before us without the slightest trace of emotion. His imperturbability struck me as inhuman.
Markham beckoned him to come nearer.
“Now, Sproot, tell us exactly what took place.”
“I was in the kitchen resting, sir”—the man’s voice was as wooden as usual—“and I was just looking at the clock and thinking I would resume my duties, when the bell of Miss Ada’s room rang. Each bell, you understand, sir—”
“Never mind that! What time was it?”
“It was exactly eleven o’clock. And, as I said, Miss Ada’s bell rang. I went right upstairs and knocked on her door; but, as there was no answer, I took the liberty of opening it and looking into the room. Miss Ada was lying on the bed; but it was not a natural attitude—if you understand what I mean. And then I noticed a very peculiar thing, sir. Miss Sibella’s little dog was on the bed—”
“Was there a chair or stool by the bed?” interrupted Vance.
“Yes, sir, I believe there was. An ottoman.”
“So the dog could have climbed on the bed unassisted?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Very good. Continue.”
“Well, the dog was on the bed, and he looked like he was standing on his hind legs playing with the bell-cord. But the peculiar thing was that his hind legs were on Miss Ada’s face, and she didn’t seem to even notice it. Inwardly I was a bit startled; and I went to the bed and picked up the dog. Then I discovered that several threads of the silk tassel on the end of the cord had got caught between his teeth; and—would you believe it, sir?—it was him who had really rung Miss Ada’s bell. …”
“Amazin’,” murmured Vance. “What then, Sproot?”
“I shook the young lady, although I had little hope of waking her after Miss Sibella’s dog had been trampling over her face without her knowing it. Then I came downstairs and drew the curtains
