Markham pushed the telephone toward him.
"See what you can find out."
Heath was fifteen minutes at the task.
"A blank," he announced finally. "The Furriers' don't use holders, and the Cosmopolis don't keep any back numbers."
"What about Mr. Skeel's clubs, Sergeant?" asked Vance, smiling.
"Oh, I know the finding of that jewellery gums up my theory about Skeel," said Heath, with surly ill nature. "But what's the good of rubbing it in? Still, if you think I'm going to give that bird a clean bill of health just because the Odell swag was found in a trash-can, you're mighty mistaken. Don't forget we're watching the Dude pretty close. He may have got leery, and tipped off some pal he'd cached the jewels with."
"I rather fancy the experienced Skeel would have turned his booty over to a professional receiver. But even had he passed it on to a friend, would this friend have been likely to throw it away because Skeel was worried?"
"Maybe not. But there's some explanation for those jewels being found, and when we get hold of it, it won't eliminate Skeel."
"No; the explanation won't eliminate Skeel," said Vance; "but—my word!—how it'll change his locus standi."
Heath contemplated him with shrewdly appraising eyes. Something in Vance's tone had apparently piqued his curiosity and set him to wondering. Vance had too often been right in his diagnoses of persons and things for the Sergeant to ignore his opinions wholly.
