“Certainly not. But, Markham, I’m much older than you. I had gray hair when you were a lad struggling with your logs and antilogs; and when one gets old one learns the true proportions in the universe. The ratios all change. The estimates we once placed on things lose their meaning. That’s why the old are more forgiving: they know that no man-made values are of any importance.”
“But as long as we must live by human values,” argued Markham, “it is my duty to uphold them. And I cannot, through any personal sense of sympathy, refuse to take any avenue that may lead to the truth.”
“You are perhaps right,” the professor sighed. “But you must not ask me to help you in this instance. If you learn the truth, be charitable. Be sure your culprit is accountable before you demand that he be sent to the electric chair. There are diseased minds as well as diseased bodies; and often the two go together.”
When we had returned to the drawing-room Vance lighted a cigarette with more than his usual care.
“The professor,” he said, “is not at all happy about Sprigg’s death; and, though he won’t admit it, that tensor formula convinced him that Sprigg and Robin belong to the same equation. But he was convinced dashed easily. Now, why?—Moreover, he didn’t care to admit that Sprigg was known hereabouts. I don’t say he has suspicions, but he has fears. . . . Deuced funny, his attitude. He apparently doesn’t want to obstruct the legal justice which you uphold with such touchin’ zeal, Markham; but he most decidedly doesn’t care to abet your crusade where the Drukkers are concerned. I wonder what’s back of his consideration for Mrs. Drukker. I shouldn’t say, offhand, that the professor was of a sentimental nature.—And what was that platitude about a diseased mind and a diseased body? Sounded like a prospectus for a physical culture class, what? . . . Lackaday! Let’s put a few questions to Pyne and kin.”
Markham sat smoking moodily. I had rarely seen him so despondent.
“I don’t see what we can hope for from them,” he commented. “However, Sergeant, get Pyne in here.”
When Heath had stepped out Vance gave Markham a waggish look.
“Really, y’ know, you shouldn’t repine. Let Terence console you:—Nil tam difficile est, quin quærendo investigari possit. And, ’pon my soul, this is a difficult problem. . . .” He became suddenly sober. “We’re dealing with unknown quantities here. We’re pitted against some strange, abnormal force that doesn’t operate according to the accepted laws of conduct. It’s at once subtle—oh, no end subtle—and unfamiliar. But at least we know that it emanates from somewhere in the environs of this old house; and we must search in every psychological nook and cranny. Somewhere about us lies the invisible dragon. So don’t be shocked at the questions I shall put to Pyne. We must look in the most unlikely places. . . .”
Footsteps were heard approaching the archway, and a moment later Heath entered with the old butler in tow.