(Tuesday, September 18; 3.30 p. m.)
It was exactly half past three when we entered the rotunda of the Stuyvesant Club. Markham at once sent for the manager, and held a few words of private conversation with him. The manager then hastened away, and was gone about five minutes.
"Mr. Spotswoode is in his rooms," he informed Markham, on returning. "I sent the electrician up to test the light bulbs. He reports that the gentleman is alone, writing at his desk."
"And the room number?"
"Three forty-one." The manager appeared perturbed. "There won't be any fuss, will there, Mr. Markham?"
"I don't look for any." Markham's tone was chilly. "However, the present matter is considerably more important than your club."
"What an exaggerated point of view!" sighed Vance when the manager had left us. "The arrest of Spotswoode, I'd say, was the acme of futility. The man isn't a criminal, don't y' know; he has nothing in common with Lombroso's Uomo Delinquente. He's what one might term a philosophic behaviorist."
Markham grunted but did not answer. He began pacing up and down agitatedly, keeping his eyes ex-
