against him. . . . Taken by and large, it's a devilish tangle. Anyway, I feel rather bucked. We're moving—oh, undoubtedly we're moving—though in what direction I can't even guess. It's beastly annoyin'."
Markham was waiting for us at the Bankers' Club. He greeted Vance irritably.
"What have you got to tell me that's so damned important?"
"Now, don't get ratty." Vance was beaming. "How's your lode-star, Skeel, behaving?"
"So far he's done everything that's pure and refined except join the Christian Endeavor Society."
"Sunday's coming. Give him time. . . . So you're not happy, Markham dear?"
"Was I dragged away from another engagement to report on my state of mind?"
"No need. Your state of mind's execrable. . . . Cheerio! I've brought you something to think about."
"Damn it! I've got too much to think about now."
"Here, have some brioche." Vance gave the order for lunch without consulting either of us. "And now for my revelations. Imprimis: Pop Cleaver wasn't in Boonton last Monday night. He was very much in the midst of our modern Gomorrah, trying to arrange a midnight party."
"Wonderful!" snorted Markham. "I lave in the font of your wisdom. His alter ego, I take it, was on the road to Hopatcong. The supernatural leaves me cold."
"You may be as pancosmic as you choose. Cleaver was in New York at midnight Monday, craving excitement."
