“Undoubtedly. And the hideous thing about it is that this tournament of crime at the Greene mansion will continue unless we can put a stop to it. That’s why I am being so careful. As the case now stands, I doubt if you could even make an arrest.”
When tea was over Vance got up and stretched himself.
“By the by, Markham,” he said offhandedly, “have you received any report on Sibella’s activities?”
“Nothing important. She’s still in Atlantic City, and evidently intends to stay there for some time. She phoned Sproot yesterday to send down another trunkful of her clothes.”
“Did she, now? That’s very gratifyin’.” Vance walked to the door with sudden resolution. “I think I’ll run out to the Greenes’ for a little while. I sha’n’t be gone over an hour. Wait for me here, Markham—there’s a good fellow; I don’t want my visit to have an official flavor. There’s a new Simplicissimus on the table to amuse you till I return. Con it and thank your own special gods that you have no Thöny or Gulbranssen in this country to caricature your Gladstonian features.”
As he spoke he beckoned to me, and, before Markham could question him, we passed out into the hall and down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later a taxicab set us down before the Greene mansion.
Sproot opened the door for us, and Vance, with only a curt greeting, led him into the drawing-room.
“I understand,” he said, “that Miss Sibella phoned you yesterday from Atlantic City and asked to have a trunk shipped to her.”
Sproot bowed. “Yes, sir. I sent the trunk off last night.”
“What did Miss Sibella say to you over the phone?”