CHAPTER XXII.
The House of Cards
(Sunday, April 17; 9 a. m.)
The astounding news of Pardee’s death had a curiously disturbing effect on Vance. He stared at Markham unbelievingly. Then he rang hastily for Currie and ordered his clothes and a cup of coffee. There was an eager impatience in his movements as he dressed.
“My word, Markham!” he exclaimed. “This is most extr’ordin’ry. . . . How did you hear of it?”
“Professor Dillard phoned me at my apartment less than half an hour ago. Pardee killed himself in the archery-room of the Dillard home some time last night. Pyne discovered the body this morning and informed the professor. I relayed the news to Sergeant Heath, and then came here. In the circumstances I thought we ought to be on hand.” Markham paused to light his cigar. “It looks as if the Bishop case was over. . . . Not an entirely satisfactory ending, but perhaps the best for every one concerned.”
Vance made no immediate comment. He sipped his coffee abstractedly, and at length got up and took his hat and stick.
“Suicide. . . ,” he murmured, as we went down the stairs. “Yes, that would be wholly consistent. But, as you say, unsatisfact’ry—dashed unsatisfact’ry. . . .”
We rode to the Dillard house, and were admitted by Pyne. Professor Dillard had no more than joined us in the drawing-room when the door-bell rang, and Heath, pugnacious and dynamic, bustled in.
“This’ll clean things up, sir,” he exulted to Markham, after the usual ritualistic handshake. “Those quiet birds . . . you never can tell. Yet, who’d’ve thought. . . ?”
“Oh, I say, Sergeant,” Vance drawled; “let’s not think. Much too wearin’. An open mind—arid like a desert—is indicated.”