“You wrapped it in the morning Herald,” put in Heath. “Did you know that Pop Cleaver reads nothing but the Herald?”
“Sergeant!” Vance’s voice was a cutting reprimand. “Certainly Mr. Spotswoode was not aware of that fact—else he would not have selected the Herald.”
Spotswoode smiled at Heath with pitying contempt. Then, with an appreciative glance at Vance, he turned back to Markham.
“An hour or so after I had disposed of the jewels I was assailed by the fear that the package might be found and the paper traced. So I bought another Herald and put it on the rack.” He paused. “Is that all?”
Markham nodded.
“Thank you—that’s all; except that I must now ask you to go with these officers.”
“In that case,” said Spotswoode quietly, “there’s a small favor I have to ask of you, Mr. Markham. Now that the blow has fallen, I wish to write a certain note—to my wife. But I want to be alone when I write it. Surely you understand that desire. It will take but a few moments. Your men may stand at the door—I can’t very well escape. . . . The victor can afford to be generous to that extent.”
Before Markham had time to reply, Vance stepped forward and touched his arm.
“I trust,” he interposed, “that you won’t deem it necess’ry to refuse Mr. Spotswoode’s request.”
Markham looked at him hesitantly.