“Nothing. Your prognostication was quite accurate. Things have been quiet and apparently normal at the Greene mansion.”
“Anyhow,” interposed Heath, “we may have a little better chance this week of getting hold of something to work on. Sibella returned from Atlantic City yesterday, and Von Blon’s been hanging round the house ever since.”
“Sibella back?” Vance sat up, and his eyes became intent.
“At six o’clock yesterday evening,” said Markham. “The newspaper men at the beach ferreted her out and ran a sensational story about her. After that the poor girl didn’t have an hour’s peace; so yesterday she packed up and came back. We got word of the move through the men the Sergeant had set to watch her. I ran out to see her this morning, and advised her to go away again. But she was pretty thoroughly disgusted, and stubbornly refused to quit the Greene house—said death was preferable to being hounded by reporters and scandal-mongers.”
Vance had risen and moved to the window, where he stood scanning the gray sky-line.
“Sibella’s back, eh?” he murmured. Then he turned round. “Let me see that weather report I asked you to prepare for me.”
Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of paper.
After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.
“Keep that, Markham. You’ll need it when you face your twelve good men and true.”
“What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant’s voice was impatient despite his effort to control it. “Mr. Markham said you had a line on the case.—For God’s sake, sir, if you’ve got any evidence against any one, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I’m getting thin worrying over this damn business.”