“The innocent of course must be considered,” he said in a voice of discouragement. “As morally wrong as suicide is, I can see your point that at times it may be theoretically justified.” (Knowing Markham as I did, I realized what this concession had cost him; and I realized, too, for the first time, how utterly hopeless he felt in the face of the scourge of horror which it was his duty to wipe out.)
The old professor nodded understandingly.
“Yes, there are some secrets so hideous that it is well for the world not to know them. A higher justice may often be achieved without the law taking its toll.”
As he spoke the door opened, and Arnesson stepped into the room.
“Well, well. Another conference, eh?” He gave us a quizzical leer, and threw himself into a chair beside the professor. “I thought the case had been adjudicated, so to speak. Didn’t Pardee’s suicide put finis to the affair?”
Vance looked straight into the man’s eyes.
“We’ve found little Miss Muffet, Mr. Arnesson.”
The other’s eyebrows went up with sardonic amusement.
“Sounds like a charade. What am I supposed to answer: ‘How’s little Jack Horner’s thumb?’ Or, should I inquire into the health of Jack Sprat?”
Vance did not relax his steady gaze.