“My dear Markham! What else could I do? In the first place, you wouldn’t have believed me, and would most likely have suggested another ocean trip, what? Furthermore, it was essential to let the professor think we suspected Arnesson. Otherwise, we’d have had no chance to force the issue as we did. Subterfuge was our only hope; and I knew that if you and the Sergeant suspected him you’d be sure to give the game away. As it was, you didn’t have to dissemble; and lo! it all worked out beautifully.”
The Sergeant, I noticed, had, for the past half hour, been regarding Vance from time to time with a look of perplexed uncertainty; but for some reason he had seemed reluctant to give voice to his troubled thoughts. Now, however, he shifted his position uneasily and, taking his cigar slowly from his mouth, asked a startling question.
“I ain’t complaining about your not putting us wise last night, Mr. Vance, but what I would like to know is: why, when you hopped up and pointed at that plate on the mantel, did you switch Arnesson’s and the old gent’s glasses?”
Vance sighed deeply and gave a hopeless wag of the head.
“I might have known that nothing could escape your eagle eye, Sergeant.”
Markham thrust himself forward over the desk, and glared at Vance with angry bewilderment.
“What’s this!” he spluttered, his usual self-restraint deserting him. “You changed the glasses? You deliberately——”
“Oh, I say!” pleaded Vance. “Let not your wrathful passions rise.” He turned to Heath with mock reproach. “Behold what you’ve got me in for, Sergeant.”
“This is no time for evasion.” Markham’s voice was cold and inexorable. “I want an explanation.”
Vance made a resigned gesture.