pocket for me?' . . . Then again, there is the possibility that the real murderer secured them in some way, and placed them on the mantel delib'rately to mislead the polizei. Women, don't y' know, never put their belongings in such neat, out-of-the-way places as mantels and hat-racks. They invariably throw them down on your fav'rite chair or your center-table."
"And, I suppose," Markham interjected, "Benson also brought the lady's cigarette butts home in his pocket?"
"Stranger things have happened," returned Vance equably; "though I sha'n't accuse him of it in this instance. . . . The cigarette butts may, y' know, be evidence of a previous conversazione."
"Even your despised Heath," Markham informed him, "had sufficient intelligence to ascertain from the housekeeper that she sweeps out the grate every morning."
Vance sighed admiringly.
"You're so thorough, aren't you? . . . But, I say, that can't be, by any chance, your only evidence against the lady?"
"By no means," Markham assured him. "But, despite your superior distrust, it's good corroboratory evidence nevertheless."
"I dare say," Vance agreed, "—seeing with what frequency innocent persons are condemned in our courts. . . . But tell me more."
Markham proceeded with an air of quiet self-assurance.
"My man learned, first, that Benson dined alone with this woman at the Marseilles, a little bohemian
