Sperling’s eyes swept the room with angry apprehension. Heath had planted himself before the man, and stood looking him up and down triumphantly.
“Well, young fella, you thought you’d get away, did you?” The Sergeant’s cigar bobbed up and down between his lips as he spoke.
The color mounted to Sperling’s cheeks, and he set his mouth stubbornly.
“So! You’ve got nothing to say?” Heath went on, squaring his jaw ferociously. “You’re one of these silent lads, are you? Well, we’ll make you talk.” He turned to Markham. “How about it, sir? Shall I take him to Headquarters?”
“Perhaps Mr. Sperling will not object to answering a few questions here,” said Markham quietly.
Sperling studied the District Attorney a moment; then his gaze moved to Vance, who nodded to him encouragingly.
“Answer questions about what?” he asked, with an obvious effort at self-control. “I was preparing to go away for the week-end when these ruffians forced their way into my room; and I was brought here without a word of explanation or even an opportunity to communicate with my family. Now you talk of taking me to Police Headquarters.” He gave Heath a defiant glare. “All right, take me to Police Headquarters—and be damned to you!”
“What time did you leave here this morning, Mr. Sperling?” Vance’s tone was soft and ingratiating, and his manner reassuring.
“About a quarter past eleven,” the man answered. “In time to catch the 11.40 Scarsdale train from Grand Central.”
“And Mr. Robin?”