Markham wrenched his arm free from the other’s grip.
“I won’t move from this office, Vance, until you explain.”
“It’s another act in the play—the last act! Oh, take my word for it.” There was a look in Vance’s eyes I had never seen before. “It’s ‘Little Miss Muffet’ now. The name isn’t identical, but that doesn’t matter. It’s near enough for the Bishop’s jest; he’ll explain it all to the press. He probably beckoned the child to the tuffet, and sat down beside her. And now she’s gone—frightened away. . . .”
Markham moved forward in a sort of daze; and Heath, his eyes bulging, leapt to the door. I have often wondered what went on in their minds during those few seconds of Vance’s importunate urgings. Did they believe in his interpretation of the episode? Or were they merely afraid not to investigate, in view of the remote possibility that another hideous joke had been perpetrated by the Bishop? Whatever their convictions or doubts, they accepted the situation as Vance saw it; and a moment later we were in the hall, hastening toward the elevator. At Vance’s suggestion we picked up Detective Tracy from the branch office of the Detective Bureau in the Criminal Courts Building.
“This affair is serious,” he explained. “Anything may happen.”
We emerged through the Franklin-Street entrance, and in a few minutes were on our way up-town in the District Attorney’s car, breaking speed regulations and ignoring traffic signals. Scarcely a word was spoken on that momentous ride; but as we swung through the tortuous roads of Central Park Vance said:
“I may be wrong, but we will have to risk it. If we wait to see whether the papers get a note, it’ll be too late. We’re not supposed to know yet; and that’s our one chance. . . .”
“What do you expect to find?” Markham’s tone was husky and a little uncertain.
Vance shook his head despondently.
“Oh, I don’t know. But it’ll be something devilish.”