“Well, sir, I think I’ll take a good look for that rag that was used to wipe up the floor down-stairs. And while I’m at it I’ll go over the archery-room with a fine-tooth comb. Also, I’ll put the screws to the cook and the butler again—especially the cook. She musta been mighty close at hand when the dirty work was going on. . . . Then the regular routine stuff—inquiries in the neighborhood and that sorta thing.”
“Let me know the results. I’ll be at the Stuyvesant Club later to-day and to-morrow afternoon.”
Vance had joined Markham in the archway.
“I say, old man,” he remarked, as we went toward the stairs; “don’t minimize the importance of that cryptic note left in the mail-box. I’ve a strong psychic suspicion that it may be the key to the nursery. You’d better ask Professor Dillard and his niece if ‘Bishop’ has any provocative significance for them. That diocesan signature has a meaning.”
“I’m not so sure,” returned Markham dubiously. “It appears utterly meaningless to me. But I’ll follow your suggestion.”
Neither the professor nor Miss Dillard, however, could recall any personal association with the word Bishop; and the professor was inclined to agree with Markham that the note was without any significant bearing on the case.
“It strikes me,” he said, “as a piece of juvenile melodrama. It isn’t likely that the person who killed Robin would adopt a vague pseudonym and write notes about his crime. I’m not acquainted with criminals, but such conduct doesn’t impress me as logical.”
“But the crime itself was illogical,” ventured Vance pleasantly.
“One can’t speak of a thing being illogical, sir,” returned the professor tartly, “when one is ignorant of the very premises of a syllogism.”
“Exactly.” Vance’s tone was studiously courteous. “Therefore, the note itself may not be without logic.”