"However, I don't recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do. . . . But if the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night."
"Did Captain Leacock draw a gun?" asked Heath.
The Major pursed his lips.
"Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind."
"Did you see the gun?" pursued Heath.
"No, I can't say that I did."
Markham put the next question.
"Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?"
"Hardly," Major Benson answered with emphasis. "Leacock isn't cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is."
A short silence followed, broken by Vance.
"What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mould of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life's document?"
"Leander Pfyfe," said the Major, "is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing,—I say young, though I imagine he's around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless, and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game, and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman's father controls
