It was half past three in the morning when I suddenly awoke, conscious of footsteps somewhere in the house. Rising quietly, I went into the hall, drawn by a vague curiosity mingled with uneasiness. At the end of the corridor a panel of light fell on the wall, and as I moved forward in the semidarkness I saw that the light issued from the partly open library door. At the same time I became aware that the footsteps, too, came from that room. I could not resist looking inside; and there I saw Vance walking up and down, his chin sunk on his breast, his hands crammed into the deep pockets of his dressing-gown. The room was dense with cigarette-smoke, and his figure appeared misty in the blue haze. I went back to bed and lay awake for an hour. When finally I dozed off it was to the accompaniment of those rhythmic footfalls in the library.
I rose at eight o’clock. It was a dark, dismal Sunday, and I had my coffee in the living-room by electric light. When I glanced into the library at nine Vance was still there, sitting at his desk. The reading-lamp was burning, but the fire on the hearth had died out. Returning to the living-room, I tried to interest myself in the Sunday newspapers; but after scanning the accounts of the Greene case I lit my pipe and drew up my chair before the grate.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Vance appeared at the door. All night he had been up, wrestling with his self-imposed problem; and the devitalizing effects of this long, sleepless concentration showed on him only too plainly. There were shadowed circles round his eyes; his mouth was drawn; and even his shoulders sagged wearily. But, despite the shock his appearance gave me, my dominant emotion was one of avid curiosity. I wanted to know the outcome of his all-night vigil; and as he came into the room I gave him a look of questioning expectancy.
When his eyes met mine he nodded slowly.
“I’ve traced the design,” he said, holding out his hands to the warmth of the fire. “And it’s more horrible than I even imagined.” He was silent for some minutes. “Telephone Markham for me, will you, Van? Tell him I must see him at once. Ask him to come to breakfast. Explain that I’m a bit fagged.”
He went out, and I heard him calling to Currie to prepare his bath.
I had no difficulty in inducing Markham to breakfast with us after I had explained the situation; and in less than an hour he arrived. Vance was dressed and shaved, and looked considerably fresher than when I had first seen him that morning; but he was still pale, and his eyes were fatigued.
No mention was made of the Greene case during breakfast, but when we had sought easy chairs in the library, Markham could withhold his impatience no longer.
“Van intimated over the phone that you had made something out of the summary.”
“Yes.” Vance spoke dispiritedly. “I’ve fitted all the items together. And it’s damnable! No wonder the truth escaped us.”
Markham leaned forward, his face tense, unbelieving.
“You know the truth?”
“Yes, I know,” came the quiet answer. “That is, my brain has told me conclusively who’s at the bottom of this fiendish affair; but even now—in the daylight—I can’t credit it. Everything in me revolts against the acceptance of the truth. The fact is, I’m almost afraid to accept it. … Dash it all, I’m getting mellow. Middle-age has crept upon me.” He attempted to smile, but failed.
Markham waited in silence.
“No, old man,” continued Vance; “I’m not going to tell you now. I can’t tell you until I’ve looked into one or two matters. You see, the pattern is plain enough, but the recognizable objects, set in their new relationships, are grotesque—like the shapes in an awful dream. I must first touch them and measure them to make sure that they’re not, after all, mere abortive vagaries.”
“And how long will this verification take?” Markham knew there was no use to try to force the issue. He realized that Vance was fully conscious of the seriousness of the situation, and respected his decision to investigate certain points before revealing his conclusions.
“Not long, I hope.” Vance went to his desk and wrote something on a piece of paper, which he handed to Markham. “Here’s a list of the five books in Tobias’s library that showed signs of having been read by the nocturnal visitor. I want those books, Markham—immediately. But I don’t want anyone to know about their being taken away. Therefore, I’m going to ask you to phone Nurse O’Brien to get Mrs. Greene’s key and secure them when no one is looking. Tell her to wrap them up and give them to the detective on guard in the house with instructions to bring them here. You can explain to her what section of the bookshelves they’re in.”
Markham took the paper and rose without a word. At the door of the den, however, he paused.
“Do you think it wise for the man to leave the house?”
“It won’t matter,” Vance told him. “Nothing more can happen there at present.”
Markham went on into the den. In a few minutes he returned.
“The books will be here in half an hour.”
When the detective arrived with the package Vance unwrapped it and laid the volumes beside his chair.
“Now, Markham, I’m going to do some reading. You won’t mind, what?” Despite his casual tone, it was evident that an urgent seriousness underlay his words.
Markham got up immediately; and again I marvelled at the complete understanding that existed between these two disparate men.
“I have a number of personal letters to write,” he
