Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of paper.
After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.
"Keep that, Markham. You'll need it when you face your twelve good men and true."
"What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?" The Sergeant's voice was impatient despite his effort to control it. "Mr. Markham said you had a line on the case.—For God's sake, sir, if you've got any evidence against any one, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I'm getting thin worrying over this damn business."
Vance drew himself together.
"Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the evidence—though it wasn't my plan to tell you just yet. However"—he went to the door with grim resolution—"we can't delay matters any longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant—and you, too, Markham. We'd better get out to the Greene house before dark."
"But, damn it all, Vance!" Markham expostulated. "Why don't you tell us what's in your mind?"
"I can't explain now—you'll understand why later"
"If you know so much, Mr. Vance," broke in Heath, "what's keeping us from making an arrest?"
"You're going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour." Though he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both Heath and Markham.
Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in Vance's car.
Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest
