“It’s preposterous!” declared Markham, studying Vance with genuine concern. “My dear fellow, you’ve let this case prey on your mind too much. Nothing has happened except that a man with a hump has fallen from the coping of a wall in the park. It’s unfortunate, I know; and it’s doubly unfortunate at just this time.” He went to Vance and put his hand on his shoulder. “Let the Sergeant and me run this show—we’re used to these things. Take a trip and get a good rest. Why not go to Europe as you generally do in the spring——?”
“Oh, quite—quite.” Vance sighed and smiled wearily. “The sea air would do me worlds of good, and all that. Bring me back to normal, what?—build up the wreck of this once noble brain. . . . I give up! The third act in this terrible tragedy is played almost before your eyes, and you serenely ignore it.”
“Your imagination has got the better of you,” Markham returned, with the patience of a deep affection. “Don’t worry about it any more. Have dinner with me to-night. We’ll talk it over then.”
At this moment Swacker looked in, and spoke to the Sergeant.
“Quinan of the World is here. Wants to see you.”
Markham swung about.
“Oh, my God! . . . Bring him in here!”
Quinan entered, waved us a cheery salutation, and handed the Sergeant a letter.
“Another billet-doux—received this morning.—What privileges do I get for being so big-hearted?”
Heath opened the letter as the rest of us looked on. At once I recognized the paper and the faint blue characters of the élite type. The note read: