Markham got up and walked toward the hall.
“You are not under suspicion, Arnesson,” he answered, with no attempt to conceal his ill-humor. “The bishop was left at Mrs. Drukker’s at exactly midnight.”
“And I was half an hour too late to qualify. Sorry to have disappointed you.”
“Let us hear if your formula works out,” said Vance, as we passed out of the front door. “We’ve a little visit to pay to Mr. Pardee now.”
“Pardee? Oho! Calling in a chess expert on the subject of bishops, eh? I see your reasoning—it at least has the virtue of being simple and direct. . . .”
He stood on the little porch and watched us, like a japish gargoyle, as we crossed the street.
Pardee received us with his customary quiet courtesy. The tragic, frustrated look which was a part of his habitual expression was even more pronounced than usual; and when he drew up chairs for us in his study his manner was that of a man whose interest in life had died, and who was merely going through the mechanical motions of living.
“We have come here, Mr. Pardee,” Vance began, “to learn what we can of Sprigg’s murder in Riverside Park yesterday morning. We have excellent reasons for every question we are about to ask you.”
Pardee nodded resignedly.
“I shall not be offended at any line of interrogation you take. After reading the papers I realize just how unusual a problem you are facing.”