"And now," continued Vance, "let's look at the indicat'ry circumst'nces and the confirmat'ry facts. . . . Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson's manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn't spoken to Benson for a week; so it's plain there was bad blood between 'em.—He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre.—Being an army officer, he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot.—He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn't seem to care who; and he even 'phoned you to inquire about it.—He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He'd known Benson int'mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him.—Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house: he no doubt had slept there many a time when showing his old pal the wonders of New York's night life. . . . How does all that appeal to you?"
Markham had risen, and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.
"So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they knew him, and inviting him to lunch? . . . What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?"
"Guilty!" exclaimed Vance. "That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion's
