“We have excellent reason to believe,” said Vance, with impressive calmness, “that the game is being played by some one else—with the chess bishop as the principal symbol.”
Drukker sobered.
“Don’t take my mother’s vagaries too seriously,” he admonished. “Her imagination often plays tricks on her.”
“Ah! And why do you mention your mother in this connection?”
“You’ve just been talking to her, haven’t you? And your comments, I must say, sound very much like some of her harmless hallucinations.”
“On the other hand,” Vance rejoined mildly, “your mother may have perfectly good grounds for her beliefs.”
Drukker’s eyes narrowed, and he looked swiftly at Markham.
“Rot!”
“Ah, well,” sighed Vance; “we sha’n’t debate the point.” Then in an altered tone he added: “It might help us though, Mr. Drukker, if we knew where you were between eight and nine yesterday morning.”
The man opened his mouth slightly as if to speak, but quickly his lips closed again, and he stood staring calculatingly at Vance. At length he answered in a high-pitched insistent voice.