“What flummery is this, Markham?” he demanded. “Any archer can shoot with a woman’s bow. . . . That unutterable young idiot! Why should he make Belle miserable by his preposterous confession! . . . Markham, my friend, do what you can for the boy.”
Markham gave his assurances, and we rose to go.
“By the by, Professor Dillard,” said Vance, pausing at the door; “I trust you won’t misunderstand me, but there’s a bare possibility that it was some one with access to this house who indulged in the practical joke of typing that note. Is there, by any chance, a typewriter on the premises?”
It was patent that the professor resented Vance’s question, but he answered civilly enough.
“No,—nor has there ever been one to my knowledge. I threw my own machine away ten years ago when I left the university. An agency does whatever typing I need.”
“And Mr. Arnesson?”
“He never uses a typewriter.”
As we descended the stairs we met Arnesson returning from Drukker’s.
“I’ve placated our local Leipnitz,” he announced, with an exaggerated sigh. “Poor old Adolph! The world is too much with him. When he’s wallowing in the relativist formulas of Lorentz and Einstein he’s serene. But when he’s dragged down to actuality he disintegrates.”
“It may interest you to know,” said Vance casually, “that Sperling has just confessed to the murder.”