But Markham was in no mood to be twitted.
"Now that you've dragged me here, what are you going to do?" He waved his hand depreciatingly, and sank into a chair with an air of contemptuous abdication.
The living-room looked much the same as when we saw it last, except that it had been put neatly in order. The shades were up, and the late afternoon light was flooding in profusely. The ornateness of the room's furnishings seemed intensified by the glare.
Vance glanced about him and gave a shudder.
"I'm half inclined to turn back," he drawled. "It's a clear case of justifiable homicide by an outraged interior decorator."
"My dear æsthete," Markham urged impatiently, "be good enough to bury your artistic prejudices, and to proceed with your problem. . . . Of course," he added, with a malicious smile, "if you fear the result, you may still withdraw, and thereby preserve your charming theories in their present virgin state."
"And permit you to send an innocent maiden to the chair!" exclaimed Vance, in mock indignation. "Fie, fie! La politesse alone forbids my withdrawal. May I never have to lament, with Prince Henry, that 'to my shame I have a truant been to chivalry'."
Markham set his jaw, and gave Vance a ferocious look.
"I'm beginning to think that, after all, there is something in your theory that every man has some motive for murdering another."
"Well," replied Vance cheerfully, "now that you
