“Damn it, Vance! Don’t start in with a mysteries-of-Udolpho attitude. The crime—if it is a crime—seems clear-cut enough. It’s an unusual method of murder, I’ll admit; but it’s certainly not senseless. Archery has become quite a fad of late. Bows and arrows are in use to-day in practically every city and college in America.”
“Granted. But it’s been a long time since they were used to kill persons named Robin.”
Markham’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Vance searchingly.
“That idea occurred to you, too, did it?”
“Occurred to me? It leapt to my brain the moment you mentioned the victim’s name.” Vance puffed a moment on his cigarette. “ ‘Who Killed Cock Robin?’ And with a bow and arrow! . . . Queer how the doggerel learned in childhood clings to the memory.—By the by, what was the unfortunate Mr. Robin’s first name?”
“Joseph, I believe.”
“Neither edifyin’ nor suggestive. . . . Any middle name?”
“See here, Vance!” Markham rose irritably. “What has the murdered man’s middle name to do with the case?”
“I haven’t the groggiest. Only, as long as we’re going insane we may as well go the whole way. A mere shred of sanity is of no value.”
He rang for Currie and sent him for the telephone directory. Markham protested, but Vance pretended not to hear; and when the directory arrived he thumbed its pages for several moments.