(Thursday, June 20; 9 p.m.)
That same evening, after a Turkish bath and dinner, Markham, grim and weary, and Vance, bland and debonair, and myself were sitting together in the alcove of the Stuyvesant Club's lounge-room.
We had smoked in silence for half an hour or more, when Vance, as if giving articulation to his thoughts, remarked:
"And it's stubborn, unimag'native chaps like Heath who constitute the human barrage between the criminal and society! . . . Sad, sad."
"We have no Napoleons to-day," Markham observed. "And if we had, they'd probably not be detectives."
"But even should they have yearnings toward that profession," said Vance, "they would be rejected on their physical measurements. As I understand it, your policemen are chosen by their height and weight; they must meet certain requirements as to heft—as though the only crimes they had to cope with were riots and gang feuds. Bulk,—the great American ideal, whether in art, architecture, table d'hôte meals, or detectives. An entrancin' notion."
"At any rate, Heath has a generous nature," said
