Markham took from his pocket a sheaf of typewritten pages and passed them over.
Vance adjusted his monocle, and read through them carefully. Then he stepped out of the room; and I heard him telephoning. When he returned he re-read the reports. One in particular he lingered over, as if weighing its possibilities.
"There's a chance, y' know," he murmured at length, gazing indecisively into the fireplace.
He glanced at the report again.
"I see here," he said, "that Colonel Ostrander, accompanied by a Bronx alderman named Moriarty, attended the Midnight Follies at the Piccadilly Theatre in Forty-seventh Street on the night of the thirteenth, arriving there a little before twelve and remaining through the performance, which was over about half past two a.m. . . . Are you acquainted with this particular alderman?"
Markham's eyes lifted sharply to the other's face.
"I've met Mr. Moriarty. What about him?" I thought I detected a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.
"Where do Bronx aldermen loll about in the forenoons?" asked Vance.
"At home, I should say. Or possibly at the Samoset Club. . . . Sometimes they have business at City Hall."
"My word!—such unseemly activity for a politician! . . . Would you mind ascertaining if Mr. Moriarty is at home or at his club. If it's not too much bother, I'd like to have a brief word with him."
Markham gave Vance a penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he went to the telephone in the den.
