Hastening to the door, I summoned Currie, and told him to call Vance at once.
"I'm afraid, sir" began Currie, politely hesitant.
"Calm your fears," cut in Markham. "I'll take all responsibility for waking him at this indecent hour."
Currie sensed an emergency and departed.
A minute or two later Vance, in an elaborately embroidered silk kimono and sandals, appeared at the living-room door.
"My word!" he greeted us, in mild astonishment, glancing at the clock. "Haven't you chaps gone to bed yet?"
He strolled to the mantel, and selected a gold-tipped Régie cigarette from a small Florentine humidor.
Markham's eyes narrowed: he was in no mood for levity.
"The Canary has been murdered," I blurted out.
Vance held his wax vesta poised, and gave me a look of indolent inquisitiveness. "Whose canary?"
"Margaret Odell was found strangled this morning," amended Markham brusquely. "Even you, wrapped in your scented cotton-wool, have heard of her. And you can realize the significance of the crime. I'm personally going to look for those footprints in the snow; and if you want to come along, as you intimated the other night, you'll have to get a move on."
Vance crushed out his cigarette.
"Margaret Odell, eh?—Broadway's blonde Aspasia—or was it Phryne who had the coiffure d'or?
