“You, too! You’ve gone mad!” He swept his eyes over us. “You damned, unutterable fools! There’s no such person as the Bishop! There wasn’t any such person as Cock Robin or Johnny Sprig. And here you are—men grown—trying to frighten me—me, a mathematician—with nursery tales! . . .” He began to laugh hysterically.
Vance went to him quickly, and taking his arm led him to his chair. Slowly his laughter died away, and he waved his hand wearily.
“Too bad Robin and Sprigg were killed.” His tone was heavy and colorless. “But children are the only persons that matter. . . . You’ll probably find the murderer. If you don’t, maybe I’ll help you. But don’t let your imaginations run away with you. Keep to facts . . . facts. . . .”
The man was exhausted, and we left him.
“He’s scared, Markham—deuced scared,” observed Vance, when we were again in the hall. “I could bear to know what is hidden in that shrewd warped mind of his.”
He led the way down the hall to Mrs. Drukker’s door.
“This method of visiting a lady doesn’t accord with the best social usage. Really, y’ know, Markham, I wasn’t born to be a policeman. I abhor snooping.”
Our knock was answered by a feeble voice. Mrs. Drukker, paler than usual, was lying back on her chaise-longue by the window. Her white prehensile hands lay along the arms of the chair, slightly flexed; and more than ever she recalled to my mind the pictures I had seen of the ravening Harpies that tormented Phineus in the story of the Argonauts.
Before we could speak she said in a strained terrified voice: “I knew you would come—I knew you were not through torturing me. . . .”
“To torture you, Mrs. Drukker,” returned Vance softly, “is the furthest thing from our thoughts. We merely want your help.”