“Sure,” the man replied good-naturedly. “The old lady’s as meek as a cat—and a swell cook.”
“We want to be alone for a while, Sniffin,” said Markham, as we passed into the living-room.
“The gastronome’s name is Snitkin—not Sniffin,” Vance corrected him, when the door had closed on us.
“Wonderful memory,” muttered Markham churlishly.
“A failing of mine,” said Vance. “I suppose you are one of those rare persons who never forget a face but just can’t recall names, what?”
But Markham was in no mood to be twitted.
“Now that you’ve dragged me here, what are you going to do?” He waved his hand depreciatingly, and sank into a chair with an air of contemptuous abdication.
The living-room looked much the same as when we saw it last, except that it had been put neatly in order. The shades were up, and the late afternoon light was flooding in profusely. The ornateness of the room’s furnishings seemed intensified by the glare.
Vance glanced about him and gave a shudder.
“I’m half inclined to turn back,” he drawled. “It’s a clear case of justifiable homicide by an outraged interior decorator.”