A red flush of angry indignation mounted to Markham’s cheeks; and for myself I must say that, familiar as I was with Vance’s idiosyncrasies and intellectual passion for rare antiques, I had never before known him to exhibit such indefensible bad taste. It seemed unbelievable that he would have let himself be distracted by an objet-d’art in such a tragic hour.
Professor Dillard frowned at him with consternation.
“You’ve chosen a strange time, sir, to indulge your enthusiasm for art,” was his scathing comment.
Vance appeared abashed and chagrined. He sank back in his seat, avoiding our eyes, and began turning the stem of his glass between his fingers.
“You are quite right, sir,” he murmured. “I owe you an apology.”
“The plaque, incidentally,” the professor added, by way of mitigating the severity of his rebuke, “is merely a copy of the Louvre piece.”
Vance, as if to hide his confusion, raised his wine to his lips. It was a highly unpleasant moment: every one’s nerves were on edge; and, in automatic imitation of his action, we lifted our glasses too.
Vance gave a swift glance across the table and, rising, went to the front window, where he stood, his back to the room. So unaccountable was his hasty departure that I turned and watched him wonderingly. Almost at the same moment the edge of the table was thrust violently against my side, and simultaneously there came a crash of glassware.
I leapt to my feet and gazed down with horror at the inert body sprawled forward in the chair opposite, one arm and shoulder flung across the table. A short silence of dismay and bewilderment followed. Each of us seemed momentarily paralyzed. Markham stood like a graven image, his eyes fastened on the table; and Heath, staring and speechless, clung rigidly to the back of his chair.
“Good Gad!”