“ ‘There was a little man,
And he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He shot Johnny Sprig
Through the middle of his wig,
And knocked it right off of his head, head, head.’ ”
CHAPTER IX.
The Tensor Formula
(Monday, April 11; 11.30 a. m.)
Markham sat staring at Vance like a man hypnotized. Heath stood rigid, his mouth partly open, his cigar held a few inches from his lips. There was something almost comic in the Sergeant’s attitude, and I had a nervous inclination to laugh; but for the moment my blood seemed frozen, and all muscular movement was impossible.
Markham was the first to speak. Jerking his head backward, he brought his hand down violently on the desk-top.
“What new lunacy of yours is this?” He was fighting desperately against Vance’s dumbfounding suggestion. “I’m beginning to think the Robin case has affected your mind. Can’t a man with the commonplace name of Sprigg be shot without your trying to turn it into some grotesque hocus-pocus?”
“Still, you must admit, Markham old dear,” returned Vance mildly, “this particular Johnny Sprigg was shot with ‘a little gun’, through ‘the middle of his wig’, so to speak.”
“What if he was?” A dull flush had crept into Markham’s face. “Is that any reason for your going about babbling Mother-Goose rhymes?”
“Oh, I say! I never babble, don’t y’ know.” Vance had dropped into a chair facing the District Attorney’s desk. “I may not be a thrillin’ elocutionist; but really, now, I don’t babble.” He gave Heath an ingratiating smile. “Do I, Sergeant?”
But Heath had no opinion to express. He still held his astonished pose, though his eyes had now become mere slits in his broad, pugnacious face.