There was a note of anxiety—of fear almost, I thought—in the professor’s voice when he next spoke.
“Even so, what can that fact have to do with us? And how can you possibly connect his death with Robin’s?”
“I admit we have nothing definite to go on,” Markham told him. “But the purposelessness of both crimes—the total lack of any motive in either case—seems to give them a curious unity of aspect.”
“You mean, of course, that you have found no motive. But if all crimes without apparent motive were assumed to be connected——”
“Also there are the elements of time and proximity in these two cases,” Markham amplified.
“Is that the basis of your assumption?” The professor’s manner was benevolently contemptuous. “You never were a good mathematician, Markham, but at least you should know that no hypothesis can be built on such a flimsy premise.”
“Both names,” interposed Vance, “—Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig—are the subjects of well-known nursery rhymes.”
The old man stared at him with undisguised astonishment; and gradually an angry flush mounted to his face.
“Your humor, sir, is out of place.”
“It is not my humor, alas!” replied Vance sadly. “The jest is the Bishop’s.”