“I can see certain traceries, so to speak—certain suggestions of a pattern; but I’ll admit the main design has thus far eluded me. The fact is, Markham, I have a feeling that some important factor in this case—some balancing line of the pattern, perhaps—is still hidden from us. I don’t say that my résumé is insusceptible of interpretation in its present state; but our task would be greatly simplified if we were in possession of the missing integer.”
Fifteen minutes later, when we had returned to Markham’s main office, Swacker came in and laid a letter on the desk.
“There’s a funny one, Chief,” he said.
Markham took up the letter and read it with a deepening frown. When he had finished, he handed it to Vance. The letter-head read, “Rectory, Third Presbyterian Church, Stamford, Connecticut”; the date was the preceding day; and the signature was that of the Reverend Anthony Seymour. The contents of the letter, written in a small, precise hand, were as follows:
The Honorable John F.-X. Markham,
Dear Sir: As far as I am aware, I have never betrayed a confidence. But there can arise, I believe, unforeseen circumstances to modify the strictness of one’s adherence to a given promise, and indeed impose upon one a greater duty than that of keeping silent.
I have read in the papers of the wicked and abominable things that have happened at the Greene residence in New York; and I have therefore come to the conclusion, after much heart-searching and prayer, that it is my bounden duty to put you in possession of a fact which, as the result of a promise, I have kept to myself for over a year. I would not now betray this trust did I not believe that some good might possibly come of it, and that you, my dear sir, would also treat the matter in the most sacred confidence. It may not help you—indeed, I do not see how it can possibly lead to a solution of the terrible curse that has fallen upon the Greene family—but since the fact is connected intimately with one of the members of that family, I will feel better when I have communicated it to you.
On the night of August 29, of last year, a machine drove up to my door, and a man and a woman asked that I secretly marry them. I may say that I am frequently receiving such requests from runaway couples. This particular couple appeared to be well-bred dependable people, and I concurred with their wishes, giving them my assurances that the ceremony would, as they desired, be kept confidential.
The names that appeared on the license—which had been secured in New Haven late that afternoon—were Sibella Greene, of New York City, and Arthur Von Blon, also of New York City.
Vance read the letter and handed it back.
“Really, y’ know, I can’t say that I’m astonished——”
Suddenly he broke off, his eyes fixed thoughtfully before him. Then he rose nervously and paced up and down.
“That tears it!” he exclaimed.
Markham threw him a look of puzzled interrogation.