“First, then, please inform us where you were yesterday morning between seven and eight.”
A faint flush overspread Pardee’s face, but he answered in a low, even voice.
“I was in bed. I did not rise until nearly nine.”
“Is it not your habit to take a walk in the park before breakfast?” (I knew this was sheer guesswork on Vance’s part, for the subject of Pardee’s habits had not come up during the investigation.)
“That is quite true,” the man replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “But yesterday I did not go,—I had worked rather late the night before.”
“When did you first hear of Sprigg’s death?”
“At breakfast. My cook repeated the gossip of the neighborhood. I read the official account of the tragedy in the early edition of the evening Sun.”
“And you saw the reproduction of the Bishop note, of course, in this morning’s paper.—What is your opinion of the affair, Mr. Pardee?”
“I hardly know.” For the first time his lacklustre eyes showed signs of animation. “It’s an incredible situation. The mathematical chances are utterly opposed to such a series of interrelated events being coincidental.”
“Yes,” Vance concurred. “And speaking of mathematics: are you at all familiar with the Riemann-Christoffel tensor?”