y' know. The only point I really insist on is that the fascinatin' Miss Odell was killed by a man of subtle and superior mentality."
"And I, in turn," irritably rejoined Markham, "insist that the only men of that type who touched her life intimately enough to have had any reason to do it are Mannix, Cleaver, Lindquist, and Spotswoode. And I further insist that not one of them can be regarded as a promising possibility."
"I fear I must contradict you, old dear," said Vance serenely. "They're all possibilities—and one of them is guilty."
Markham glared at him derisively.
"Well, well! So the case is settled! Now, if you'll but indicate which is the guilty one, I'll arrest him at once, and return to my other duties."
"You're always in such haste," Vance lamented. "Why leap and run? The wisdom of the world's philosophers is against it. Festina lente, says Cæsar; or, as Rufus has it, Festinatio tarda est. And the Koran says quite frankly that haste is of the Devil. Shakespeare was constantly belittling speed:
and
Then there was Molière—remember 'Sganarelle'?—: 'Le trop de promptitude à l'erreur nous expose.' Chaucer also held similar views. 'He hasteth wel,' said he, 'that wysely can abyde.' Even God's common people have embalmed the idea in numberless proverbs: 'Good and quickly seldom meet'; and 'Hasty men never want woe'"
