“And was he shot through the top of his head?”
The Sergeant sprang to his feet, and stared at Vance with ludicrous bewilderment. Slowly his head moved up and down.
“That’s right.—But how in hell, sir——?”
Vance held up a silencing hand. It was, however, the look on his face, rather than his gesture, that cut short the query.
“Oh, my precious aunt!” He rose like a man in a daze and gazed fixedly before him. Had I not known him so well I would have sworn he was frightened. Then going to the tall window behind Markham’s desk he stood looking down on the gray stone walls of the Tombs.
“I can’t credit it,” he murmured. “It’s too ghastly. . . . But of course it’s so! . . .”
Markham’s impatient voice sounded.
“What’s all this mumbling about, Vance? Don’t be so damned mysterious! How did you happen to know that Sprigg was shot through the crown with a .32? And what’s the point, anyway?”
Vance turned and met Markham’s eyes.
“Don’t you see?” he asked softly. “It’s the second act of this devilish parody! . . . Have you forgotten your ‘Mother-Goose’?” And in a hushed voice that brought a sense of unutterable horror into that dingy old office he recited: