up my mind to pour out my flutterin' heart to you and the Sergeant."
Markham frowned. He understood Vance so well that he knew the other's levity was only superficial—that, indeed, it cloaked some particularly serious purpose. And the experience of a long, intimate friendship had taught him that Vance's actions—however unreasonable they might appear—were never the result of an idle whim.
"Very well," he acquiesced. "But I'd be grateful for an economy of words."
Vance sighed mournfully.
"Your attitude is so typical of the spirit of breathless speed existing in this restless day." He fixed an inquisitive gaze on Heath. "Tell me, Sergeant: you saw the body of Julia Greene, didn't you?"
"Sure, I saw it."
"Was her position in the bed a natural one?"
"How do I know how she generally laid in bed?" Heath was restive and in bad humor. "She was half sitting up, with a coupla pillows under her shoulders, and the covers pulled up."
"Nothing unusual about her attitude?"
"Not that I could see. There hadn't been a struggle, if that's what you mean."
"And her hands: were they outside or under the covers?"
Heath looked up, mildly astonished.
"They were outside. And, now that you mention it, they had a tight hold on the spread."
"Clutching it, in fact?"
"Well, yes."
Vance leaned forward quickly.
