Vance. "It might be that my æsthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call 'em—are working out—eh, what?"
A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had just returned from Long Island with his report.
"Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe's affaires du cœur?" Vance asked Markham. "For, if he is, I am all a-flutter."
"He's the man. . . . Send him in, Swacker."
Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black note-book in one hand, his pince-nez in the other.
"I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe," he said. "He's well known in Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up gossip about him."
He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his note-book.
"He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She's wealthy, but Pfyfe doesn't benefit much by it, because her father sits on the money-bags"
"Mr. Tracy, I say," interrupted Vance; "never mind the née-Hawthorn and her doting papa,—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe's extra-nuptial affairs. Are there any other ladies?"
Tracy looked inquiringly at the District Attorney: he was uncertain as to Vance's locus standi. Receiving a nod from Markham, he turned a page in his note-book and proceeded.
"I found one other woman in the case. She lives in New York, and often telephones to a drug store near Pfyfe's house, and leaves messages for him. He
