Markham hesitated.
"This is, of course, in confidence," he said at length; "but this morning, right after you 'phoned, one of the men I had put to work on the amatory end of Benson's life, reported that he had found the woman who left her hand-bag and gloves at the house that night,—the initials on the handkerchief gave him the clue. And he dug up some interesting facts about her. As I suspected, she was Benson's dinner companion that evening. She's an actress—musical comedy, I believe. Muriel St. Clair by name."
"Most unfortunate," breathed Vance. "I was hoping, y' know, your myrmidons wouldn't discover the lady. I haven't the pleasure of her acquaintance, or I'd send her a note of commiseration. . . . Now, I presume, you'll play the juge d'instruction and chivvy her most horribly, what?"
"I shall certainly question her, if that's what you mean."
Markham's manner was preoccupied, and during the rest of the lunch we spoke but little.
As we sat in the Club's lounge-room later having our smoke, Major Benson, who had been standing dejectedly at a window close by, caught sight of Markham and came over to us. He was a full-faced man of about fifty, with grave kindly features and a sturdy, erect body.
He greeted Vance and me with a casual bow, and turned at once to the District Attorney.
"Markham, I've been thinking things over constantly since our lunch yesterday," he said, "and there's one other suggestion I think I might make. There's a man named Leander Pfyfe who was very
