Markham’s manner was preoccupied, and during the rest of the lunch we spoke but little.
As we sat in the Club’s lounge-room later having our smoke, Major Benson, who had been standing dejectedly at a window close by, caught sight of Markham and came over to us. He was a full-faced man of about fifty, with grave kindly features and a sturdy, erect body.
He greeted Vance and me with a casual bow, and turned at once to the District Attorney.
“Markham, I’ve been thinking things over constantly since our lunch yesterday,” he said, “and there’s one other suggestion I think I might make. There’s a man named Leander Pfyfe who was very close to Alvin; and it’s possible he could give you some helpful information. His name didn’t occur to me yesterday, for he doesn’t live in the city; he’s on Long Island somewhere—Port Washington, I think.—It’s just an idea. The truth is, I can’t seem to figure out anything that makes sense in this terrible affair.”
He drew a quick, resolute breath, as if to check some involuntary sign of emotion. It was evident that the man, for all his habitual passivity of nature, was deeply moved.
“That’s a good suggestion, Major,” Markham said, making a notation on the back of a letter. “I’ll get after it immediately.”
Vance, who, during this brief interchange, had been gazing unconcernedly out of the window, turned and addressed himself to the Major.
“How about Colonel Ostrander? I’ve seen him several times in the company of your brother.”
Major Benson made a slight gesture of deprecation.
“Only an acquaintance. He’d be of no value.”