He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling.
"I have an idea, amounting to a cerebral cyclone," he added, "that when we put our hands on that security, we'll also put our hands on the murderer."
At this moment the telephone rang, and when Markham answered it a look of startled amusement came into his eyes. He made an appointment with the speaker for half past five that afternoon. Then, hanging up the receiver, he laughed outright at Vance.
"Your auricular researches have been confirmed," he said. "Miss Hoffman just called me confidentially on an outside 'phone to say she has something to add to her story. She's coming here at five-thirty."
Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.
"I rather imagined she'd telephone during her lunch hour."
Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.
"There's something damned queer going on around here," he observed.
"Oh, quite," returned Vance carelessly. "Queerer than you could possibly imagine."
For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.
"I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion," he said, "that either you had a hand in Benson's murder, or you're a phenomenally good guesser."
"There is, y' know, an alternative," rejoined
