“Yes!” Markham sat up a little straighter. “Her father mentioned that she often went to parties at his house. . . .”
“I’ve seen the child.” Vance rose and stood, hands in pockets, gazing down at the floor. “An adorable little creature . . . golden curls. She brought a handful of flowers for Drukker the morning of his funeral. . . . And now she has disappeared after having been seen talking with a strange man. . . .”
“What’s going on in your mind?” demanded Markham sharply.
Vance appeared not to have heard the question.
“Why should her father appeal to you?”
“I’ve known Moffat slightly for years—he was at one time connected with the city administration. He’s frantic—grasping at every straw. The proximity of the affair to the Bishop murders has made him morbidly apprehensive. . . . But see here, Vance; we didn’t come here to discuss the Moffat child’s disappearance. . . .”
Vance lifted his head: there was a look of startled horror on his face.
“Don’t speak—oh, don’t speak. . . .” He began pacing up and down, while Markham and Heath watched him in mute amazement. “Yes—yes; that would be it,” he murmured to himself. “The time is right . . . it all fits. . . .”
He swung about, and going to Markham seized his arm.
“Come—quickly! It’s our only chance—we can’t wait another minute.” He fairly dragged Markham to his feet and led him toward the door. “I’ve been fearing something like this all week——”