‘Their vanity, you fool!’ said that inner voice in him.
Yes; that was it. Their vanity. Their pathological vanity.
He sat very still, considering this; not amused any longer.
Vanity. The first requisite in wrong-doing. The constant factor in the criminal mind.
Just supposing that—
The telephone at his elbow gave its sudden purr.
It was Tad. He had reached number eighteen, he said, and was now an old old man but the blood of pioneers was in his veins and he was pursuing the search.
‘Drop it for a little and come and eat with me somewhere.’
‘Oh, I’ve had my lunch. I had a coupla bananas and a milk shake in Leicester Square.’
‘Merciful Heaven!’ said Grant.