"Don't get off again on your metaphysical theories and esoteric hypotheses," Markham interjected tartly. "We've either got to find a practical modus operandi, or admit ourselves beaten."
"But, Markham old man, you're beaten on the face of it unless you can put your chaotic facts into some kind of order. And the only way you'll be able to do that is by a process of prayerful analysis."
"You give me some facts that've got some sense to 'em," challenged Heath, "and I'll put 'em together soon enough."
"The Sergeant's right," was Markham's comment. "You'll admit that as yet we haven't any significant facts to work with."
"Oh, there'll be more."
Inspector Moran sat up, and his eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Vance?" It was obvious that the remark had struck some chord of agreement in him.
"The thing isn't over yet." Vance spoke with unwonted sombreness. "The picture's unfinished. There's more tragedy to come before the monstrous canvas is rounded out. And the hideous thing about it is that there's no way of stopping it. Nothing now can halt the horror that's at work. It's got to go on."
"You feel that, too!" The Inspector's voice was off its normal pitch. "By God! This is the first case I've ever had that frightened me."
"Don't forget, sir," argued Heath, but without conviction, "that we got men watching the house day and night."
"There's no security in that, Sergeant," asserted
