(Tuesday, September 18; 2 p. m.)
Less than half an hour later we again entered the main hall of the little apartment building in 71st Street. Spively, as usual, was on duty at the switchboard. Just inside the public reception-room the officer on guard reclined in an easy chair, a cigar in his mouth. On seeing the District Attorney, he rose with forced alacrity.
"When you going to open things up, Mr. Markham?" he asked. "This rest-cure is ruinin' my health."
"Very soon, I hope, officer," Markham told him. "Any more visitors?"
"Nobody, sir." The man stifled a yawn.
"Let's have your key to the apartment.—Have you been inside?"
"No, sir. Orders were to stay out here."
We passed into the dead girl's living-room. The shades were still up, and the sunlight of midday was pouring in. Nothing apparently had been touched: not even the overturned chairs had been righted. Markham went to the window and stood, his hands behind him, surveying the scene despondently. He was laboring under a growing uncertainty, and he watched Vance with a cynical amusement which was far from spontaneous.
