“Your auricular researches have been confirmed,” he said. “Miss Hoffman just called me confidentially on an outside ’phone to say she has something to add to her story. She’s coming here at five-thirty.”
Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.
“I rather imagined she’d telephone during her lunch hour.”
Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.
“There’s something damned queer going on around here,” he observed.
“Oh, quite,” returned Vance carelessly. “Queerer than you could possibly imagine.”
For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.
“I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion,” he said, “that either you had a hand in Benson’s murder, or you’re a phenomenally good guesser.”
“There is, y’ know, an alternative,” rejoined Vance. “It might be that my æsthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call ’em—are working out—eh, what?”
A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had just returned from Long Island with his report.