“Sure I would!” spat Mannix. “And let me tell you something, my friend: that’s just where I stand—absolutely!” He swung heavily about and faced Markham. “I’m a good fellow, y’ understand, but I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough. . . . That side door wasn’t locked Monday night. And I know who sneaked out of it at five minutes to twelve!”
“Ça marche!” murmured Vance, reseating himself and calmly lighting a cigarette.
Markham was too astonished to speak at once; and Heath sat stock-still, his cigar half-way to his mouth.
At length Markham leaned back and folded his arms.
“I think you’d better tell us the whole story, Mr. Mannix.” His voice held a quality which made the request an imperative.
Mannix, too, settled back in his chair.
“Oh, I’m going to tell it—believe me, I’m going to tell it.—You had the right idea. I spent the evening with Miss Frisbee. No harm in that, though.”
“What time did you go there?”
“After office hours—half past five, quarter to six. Came up in the subway, got off at 72d, and walked over.”
“And you entered the house through the front door?”