pick us up. He refused to say more, and hung up the receiver abruptly.
It wanted ten minutes of being noon when he arrived; and his expression of grim discouragement told us more plainly than words that another tragedy had occurred. We had on our coats in readiness and accompanied him at once to the car.
"And who is it this time?" asked Vance, as we swung into Park Avenue.
"Ada." Markham spoke bitterly through his teeth.
"I was afraid of that, after what she told us yesterday.—With poison, I suppose."
"Yes—the morphine."
"Still, it's an easier death than strychnine-poisoning."
"She's not dead, thank God!" said Markham. "That is, she was still alive when Heath phoned."
"Heath? Was he at the house?"
"No. The nurse notified him at the Homicide Bureau, and he phoned me from there. He'll probably be at the Greenes' when we arrive."
"You say she isn't dead?"
"Drumm—he's the official police surgeon Moran stationed in the Narcoss Flats—got there immediately, and had managed to keep her alive up to the time the nurse phoned."
"Sproot's signal worked all right, then?"
"Apparently. And I want to say, Vance, that I'm damned grateful to you for that suggestion to have a doctor on hand."
When we arrived at the Greene mansion Heath, who had been watching for us, opened the door.
