“Still, Sergeant,” said Vance consolingly, “shooting a man is an ordin’ry event. There are numerous commonplace reasons for that sort of crime. It’s the scenic and dramatic appurtenances of Robin’s murder that play havoc with all our processes of deduction. If only it wasn’t a nursery affair——”
Suddenly he stopped speaking, and his eyelids drooped slightly. Leaning forward he very deliberately crushed out his cigarette.
“Did you say, Sergeant, that this chap’s name was Sprigg?”
Heath nodded gloomily.
“And I say,”—despite Vance’s effort, there was a note of eagerness in his tone—“what was his first name?”
Heath gave Vance a look of puzzled surprise; but after a brief pause he drew forth his battered note-book and riffled the pages.
“John Sprigg,” he answered. “John E. Sprigg.”
Vance took out another cigarette, and lighted it with great care.
“And tell me: was he shot with a .32?”
“Huh?” Heath’s eyes rounded, and his chin shot forward. “Yes, a .32. . . .”