A minute or two later Vance, in an elaborately embroidered silk kimono and sandals, appeared at the living-room door.
“My word!” he greeted us, in mild astonishment, glancing at the clock. “Haven’t you chaps gone to bed yet?”
He strolled to the mantel, and selected a gold-tipped Régie cigarette from a small Florentine humidor.
Markham’s eyes narrowed: he was in no mood for levity.
“The Canary has been murdered,” I blurted out.
Vance held his wax vesta poised, and gave me a look of indolent inquisitiveness. “Whose canary?”
“Margaret Odell was found strangled this morning,” amended Markham brusquely. “Even you, wrapped in your scented cotton-wool, have heard of her. And you can realize the significance of the crime. I’m personally going to look for those footprints in the snow; and if you want to come along, as you intimated the other night, you’ll have to get a move on.”
Vance crushed out his cigarette.
“Margaret Odell, eh?—Broadway’s blonde Aspasia—or was it Phryne who had the coiffure d’or? . . . Most distressin’!” Despite his offhand manner, I could see he was deeply interested. “The base enemies of law and order are determined to chivvy you most horribly, aren’t they, old dear? Deuced inconsiderate of ’em! . . . Excuse me while I seek habiliments suitable to the occasion.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, while Markham took out a large cigar and resolutely prepared it for smoking, and I returned to the library to put away the papers on which I had been working.