"What's that!—I won't want him? . . And why, pray?"
"Well," Vance explained indolently; "he hasn't a congenial and lovable nature, has he? And he's not exactly an object of blindin' beauty. I shouldn't want him around me more than was necess'ry, don't y' know. . . . Incidentally, he's not guilty."
Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance searchingly for a full minute.
"I don't follow you," he said. "If you think Pfyfe's innocent, who, in God's name, do you think is guilty?"
Vance glanced at his watch.
"Come to my house to-morrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I'll tell you who shot Benson."
Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimize, his statement.
"Why not tell me now?" he asked.
"Awf'lly sorry, y' know," apologized Vance; "but I'm going to the Philharmonic's 'special' to-night. They're playing César Franck's D-minor, and Stransky's temp'rament is em'nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities. . . . You'd better come along, old man. Soothin' to the nerves and all that."
"Not me!" grumbled Markham. "What I need is a brandy-and-soda."
He walked down with us to the taxicab.
"Come at nine to-morrow," said Vance, as we took
