“Good God, Vance!” said Markham huskily. “We’ve got to move quickly. That child’s story opens up new and frightful possibilities.”
“Couldn’t you get a commitment for the old woman to some sanitarium to-morrow, sir?” asked Heath.
“On what grounds? It’s a pathological case, pure and simple. We haven’t a scrap of evidence.”
“I shouldn’t attempt it, in any event,” interposed Vance. “We mustn’t be hasty. There are several conclusions to be drawn from Ada’s story; and if the thing that all of us is thinking should be wrong, we’d only make matters worse by a false move. We might delay the slaughter for the time being; but we’d learn nothing. And our only hope is to find out—some way—what’s at the bottom of this atrocious business.”
“Yeh? And how are we going to do that, Mr. Vance?” Heath spoke with despair.
“I don’t know now. But the Greene household is safe for to-night anyway; and that gives us a little time. I think I’ll have another talk with Von Blon. Doctors—especially the younger ones—are apt to give snap diagnoses.”
Heath had hailed a taxicab, and we were headed down-town along Third Avenue.
“It can certainly do no harm,” agreed Markham. “And it might bring forth something suggestive. When will you tackle him?”
Vance was gazing out of the window.
“Why not at once?” Suddenly his mood had changed. “Here we are in the Forties. And tea-time! What could be more opportune?”