“Yes. But I believe they were to drop him at Mrs. Riglander’s, where he had a professional call to make. From what he said as he went out I gathered that the young ladies were then to take a drive, and that he was to call here for the car after dinner.”
“What!” Vance stiffened, and his eyes burned upon the old butler. “Quick, Sproot! Do you know where Mrs. Riglander lives?”
“On Madison Avenue in the Sixties, I believe.”
“Get her on the phone—find out if the doctor has arrived.”
I could not help marvelling at the impassive way in which the man went to the telephone to comply with this astonishing and seemingly incomprehensible request. When he returned his face was expressionless.
“The doctor has not arrived at Mrs. Riglander’s, sir,” he reported.
“He’s certainly had time,” Vance commented, half to himself. Then: “Who drove the car when it left here, Sproot?”
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I didn’t notice particularly. But it’s my impression that Miss Sibella entered the car first as though she intended to drive——”
“Come, Markham!” Vance started for the door. “I don’t like this at all. There’s a mad idea in my head. . . . Hurry, man! If something devilish should happen . . .”
We had reached the car, and Vance sprang to the wheel. Heath and Markham, in a daze of incomprehension but swept along by the other’s ominous insistence, took their places in the tonneau; and I sat beside the driver’s seat.