“I’ll be glad to tell you whatever we know, Arnesson,” Markham replied after a brief pause. “But I can’t promise to reveal everything that may arise from now on. It might work against the ends of justice and embarrass our investigation.”
Vance had sat with half-closed eyes, apparently bored by Arnesson’s astonishing request; but now he turned to Markham with a considerable show of animation.
“I say, y’ know; there’s really no reason why we shouldn’t give Mr. Arnesson a chance to translate this crime into the realm of applied mathematics. I’m sure he’d be discreet and use our information only for scientific purposes. And—one never knows, does one?—we may need his highly trained assistance before we’re through with this fascinatin’ affair.”
Markham knew Vance well enough to realize that his suggestion had not been made thoughtlessly; and I was in no wise astonished when he faced Arnesson and said:
“Very well, then. We’ll give you whatever data you need to work out your mathematical formula. Anything special you want to know now?”
“Oh, no. I know the details thus far as well as you; and I’ll strip Beedle and old Pyne of their contributions when you’re gone. But if I solve this problem and determine the exact position of the criminal, don’t pigeon-hole my findings as Sir George Airy did those of poor Adams when he submitted his Neptunean calculations prior to Leverrier’s. . . .”
At this moment the front door opened, and the uniformed officer stationed on the porch came in, followed by a stranger.
“This gent here says he wants to see the professor,” he announced with radiating suspicion; and turning to the man he indicated Markham with a gesture of the head. “That’s the District Attorney. Tell him your troubles.”
The newcomer seemed somewhat embarrassed. He was a slender, well-groomed man with an unmistakable air of refinement. His age, I should say, was fifty, though his face held a perennially youthful look. His hair was thin and graying, his nose a trifle sharp, and his chin small but in no way weak. His eyes, surmounted by a high broad forehead, were his most striking characteristic. They were the eyes of a disappointed and disillusioned dreamer—half sad, half resentful, as if life had tricked him and left him unhappy and bitter.
He was about to address Markham when he caught sight of Arnesson.