commented Vance drily. "What have you done with the ones you forged about Miss St. Clair and Leacock?"
"I haven't entirely discarded them—if that's what you think," asserted Markham gravely.
When we reached the office Sergeant Heath was awaiting us with a beatific grin.
"It's all over, Mr. Markham," he announced. "This noon, after you'd gone, Leacock came here looking for you. When he found you were out, he 'phoned Headquarters, and they connected him with me. He wanted to see me—very important, he said; so I hurried over. He was sitting in the waiting-room when I came in, and he called me over and said: 'I came to give myself up. I killed Benson.' I got him to dictate a confession to Swacker, and then he signed it. . . . Here it is." He handed Markham a typewritten sheet of paper.
Markham sank wearily into a chair. The strain of the past few days had begun to tell on him. He sighed heavily.
"Thank God! Now our troubles are ended."
Vance looked at him lugubriously, and shook his head.
"I rather fancy, y' know, that your troubles are only beginning," he drawled.
When Markham had glanced through the confession he handed it to Vance, who read it carefully with an expression of growing amusement.
"Y' know," he said, "this document isn't at all legal. Any judge worthy the name would throw it precip'tately out of court. It's far too simple and precise. It doesn't begin with 'greetings'; it doesn't
