“There was never any doubt as to the success of my trip, Van. I knew what I’d find. But I didn’t dare trust my reason; I had to see the records with my own eyes before I’d capitulate unreservedly to the conclusion I’d formed.”
Both Markham and Heath were waiting for us in the District Attorney’s office. It was just four o’clock, and the sun had already dropped below the New York Life Building which towered above the old Criminal Courts structure a block to the southwest.
“I took it for granted you had something important to tell me,” said Markham; “so I asked the Sergeant to come here.”
“Yes, I’ve much to tell.” Vance had thrown himself into a chair, and was lighting a cigarette. “But first I want to know if anything has happened in my absence.”
“Nothing. Your prognostication was quite accurate. Things have been quiet and apparently normal at the Greene mansion.”
“Anyhow,” interposed Heath, “we may have a little better chance this week of getting hold of something to work on. Sibella returned from Atlantic City yesterday, and Von Blon’s been hanging round the house ever since.”
“Sibella back?” Vance sat up, and his eyes became intent.
“At six o’clock yesterday evening,” said Markham. “The newspaper men at the beach ferreted her out and ran a sensational story about her. After that the poor girl didn’t have an hour’s peace; so yesterday she packed up and came back. We got word of the move through the men the Sergeant had set to watch her. I ran out to see her this morning, and advised her to go away again. But she was pretty thoroughly disgusted, and stubbornly refused to quit the Greene house—said death was preferable to being hounded by reporters and scandalmongers.”
Vance had risen and moved to the window, where he stood scanning the gray skyline.
“Sibella’s back, eh?” he murmured. Then he turned round. “Let me see that weather report I asked you to prepare for me.”
Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of paper.
After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.
“Keep that, Markham. You’ll need it when you face your twelve good men and true.”
“What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant’s voice was impatient despite his effort to control it. “Mr. Markham said you had a line on the case.—For God’s sake, sir, if you’ve got any evidence against anyone, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I’m getting thin worrying over this damn business.”
Vance drew himself together.
“Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the evidence—though it wasn’t my plan to tell you just yet. However”—he went to the door with grim resolution—“we can’t delay matters any longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant—and you, too, Markham. We’d better get out to the Greene house before dark.”
“But, damn it all, Vance!” Markham expostulated. “Why don’t you tell us what’s in your mind?”
“I can’t explain now—you’ll understand why later—”
“If you know so much, Mr. Vance,” broke in Heath, “what’s keeping us from making an arrest?”
“You’re going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour.” Though he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both Heath and Markham.
Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in Vance’s car.
Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest show of interest, and stood aside respectfully for us to enter.
“We wish to see Miss Sibella,” said Vance. “Please tell her to come to the drawing-room—alone.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Sibella is out.”
“Then tell Miss Ada we want to see her.”
“Miss Ada is out also, sir.” The butler’s unemotional tone sounded strangely incongruous in the tense atmosphere we had brought with us.
“When do you expect them back?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. They went out motoring together. They probably won’t be gone long. Would you gentlemen care to wait?”
Vance hesitated.
“Yes, we’ll wait,” he decided, and walked toward the drawing-room.
But he had barely reached the archway when he turned suddenly and called to Sproot, who was retreating slowly toward the rear of the hall.
“You say Miss Sibella and Miss Ada went motoring together? How long ago?”
“About fifteen minutes—maybe twenty, sir.” A barely perceptible lift of the man’s eyebrows indicated that he was greatly astonished by Vance’s sudden change of manner.
“Whose car did they go in?”
“In Doctor Von Blon’s. He was here to tea—”
“And who suggested the ride, Sproot?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. They were sort of debating about it when I came in to clear away the tea things.”
“Repeat everything you heard!” Vance spoke rapidly and with more than a trace of excitement.
“When I entered the room the doctor was saying as how he thought it would be a good thing for the young ladies to get some fresh air; and Miss Sibella said she’d had enough fresh air.”
“And Miss Ada?”
“I don’t remember her saying anything, sir.”
“And they went out to the car while you were here?”
“Yes, sir. I opened the door for them.”
“And did Doctor Von Blon go in the car with them?”
“Yes. But I believe they were to drop him at Mrs. Riglander’s, where he had a professional call to make. From what he said as he went out I gathered that the young ladies were then to take a drive, and that he was to call here for the car after dinner.”
“What!” Vance stiffened, and his eyes burned upon the old butler. “Quick, Sproot! Do you know where Mrs. Riglander lives?”
“On Madison Avenue in the Sixties, I believe.”
“Get her on the phone—find out if the doctor has arrived.”
I could not help marvelling at the impassive way in which the man went to the telephone to comply with this astonishing and seemingly incomprehensible request. When he returned his face was expressionless.
“The doctor has not arrived at Mrs. Riglander’s, sir,” he reported.
“He’s certainly had time,” Vance commented, half to himself. Then: “Who drove the car when it left here,
