Vance drew himself together.
“Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the evidence—though it wasn’t my plan to tell you just yet. However”—he went to the door with grim resolution—“we can’t delay matters any longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant—and you, too, Markham. We’d better get out to the Greene house before dark.”
“But, damn it all, Vance!” Markham expostulated. “Why don’t you tell us what’s in your mind?”
“I can’t explain now—you’ll understand why later——”
“If you know so much, Mr. Vance,” broke in Heath, “what’s keeping us from making an arrest?”
“You’re going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour.” Though he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both Heath and Markham.
Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in Vance’s car.
Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest show of interest, and stood aside respectfully for us to enter.
“We wish to see Miss Sibella,” said Vance. “Please tell her to come to the drawing-room—alone.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Sibella is out.”