"You'll be telling me next you know who killed him," Markham scoffed.
Vance sent a ring of smoke circling upward.
"I've known all along who shot the blighter."
Markham snorted derisively.
"Indeed! And when did this revelation burst upon you?"
"Oh, not more than five minutes after I entered Benson's house that first morning," replied Vance.
"Well, well! Why didn't you confide in me, and avoid all these trying activities?"
"Quite impossible," Vance explained jocularly. "You were not ready to receive my apocryphal knowledge. It was first necess'ry to lead you patiently by the hand out of the various dark forests and morasses into which you insisted upon straying. You're so dev'lishly unimag'native, don't y' know."
A taxicab was passing, and he hailed it.
"Eighty-seven West Forty-eighth Street," he directed.
Then he took Markham's arm confidingly.
"Now for a brief chat with Mrs. Platz. And then—then I shall pour into your ear all my maidenly secrets."
