Vance rose early that morning. I myself was around at nine o'clock and was surprised to find him in street clothes and on the point of leaving the house.

    "I'll be back in half an hour, Van," he said, as he went out, but gave no further explanation.

    Fifteen minutes later Markham arrived, and he had waited but ten minutes when Vance came in. He was carrying the Scottish terrier bitch in his arms. There was a dressing on her head held in place by adhesive tape, but otherwise she seemed alert and well.

    "Morning, Markham," Vance greeted the District Attorney. "Really, y' know, I didn't expect you so early. I've just toddled over to Doctor Blamey's to see how the little Scotch lassie was getting along—and here she is."

    He put the dog down and rang for Currie. When the man came he ordered Melba toast and a dish of warm milk.

    "A little breakfast for the lass," he explained. "I've a feelin' she's going to do a bit of travellin' to-day."

    Markham looked at him sceptically.

    "You still think you can trace the person we want through that dog?"

    "It's about our only hope," Vance told him seriously. "The case is far too complicated as it stands—there are too many contradictions. I am sure that you, as a prosecuting attorney, could pin the various crimes on any one of three or four people. But until I have traced the ownership and peregrinations of this Scottie, I sha'n't be satisfied."

    Markham frowned. "Just how do you intend to go about it?"

    Vance studied the terrier for a few moments as he crumbled the Melba toast into the dish of milk. He ran his hands over her contours; he looked at her teeth; he felt her coat; put his fist under her brisket; and took one of her forelegs in his hand.

    "As I told you, Markham, this little bitch is in perfect show condition. She's been trimmed and conditioned by an expert, and it seems pretty certain that she's been entered in some show recently. She's a show dog, and her stripping is that of a professional handler; it is no pet-shop or hospital assistant's job; and owners of dogs do not go to the professional type of trimmer unless they have the ring in mind. My guess is, from her condition, that she's been shown within the last month. And it's simple enough to find what shows have been held within a reasonable radius of New York during that period."

    "But why couldn't she have been shown before?" Markham asked.

    "Because," explained Vance, "her coat wouldn't have been ready. She's just in full coat now—it's only beginning to go 'bye.' Over a month ago her coat would have been too short. . . . But never mind the technicalities."

    He went into the library and returned with his file of Popular Dogs. Sitting down in his easy chair he placed the file across his knees and began running his finger down the calendar of official dog shows.

    "Now, let's see," he murmured. "During the past month there has been held around New York the show at Syracuse—make a note of these, will you, Van? Then came the Cornwall show; and after that, Tuxedo. And a week later was the Camden show, which was followed by Westbury, and also the Englewood show. . . . That brings us pretty well up to date, and they are all possibilities. Moreover, if she was on exhibition at any of these shows, she was in either the puppy or the novice class—and perhaps in the American-bred, although I doubt it."

    "And how do you figure that?" Markham was still sceptical.

    "That's not so difficult," Vance elucidated. "She's about a year old, I should say—perhaps a month or two either way. . . ."

    "You mean to tell me," asked Markham, "that you can look at a dog and tell how old it is?"

    "Approximately—yes. But one looks at the teeth for one's information. Both the temporary and the permanent teeth of a dog appear at certain ages. The third molar, for instance, appears when the dog is between six and nine months old. And as this Scottie's molars are well formed, I know she is at least nine or ten months old. But that is not the real test. Age is judged largely by the appearance of the incisors and the wearing-away of the cusps. The incisors are crowned with three lobes—a central and two lateral—resembling a fleur-de-lis. During the first year these three cusps are all present and show very little wear; but during the second year the middle cusp begins to wear level with the laterals, and the fleur-de-lis disappears from the central incisors of the lower jaw. . . . Now, if we assume that this Scottie has had a normal diet, has not had too many bones to gnaw, and has not come in contact with stones, it may fairly accurately be deduced, from the condition of her teeth, that she is about a year old—perhaps just entering her second year. . . ."

    "Very well." Markham was becoming bored. "Go on from there."

    "Up to twelve months," Vance continued, "dogs are eligible for the puppy class. Moreover, any dog which hasn't won a blue ribbon, except in the puppy class, is eligible for the novice class. This dog is too young to have won any important blue ribbons, and therefore my guess would be that her entries would have been in the puppy and novice classes. . . . It's not an important matter, although it limits and facilitates my investigation somewhat."

    "It sounds like shooting into the dark." Markham was far from convinced.

    "You're right, to a certain extent," Vance agreed. "But there's a simpler way of determining the dog's ownership—and I shall try that first."

    Vance stood looking down at the bandaged Scottie as she ate her milk and toast.

    "The more I see of her, Markham, the more I'm convinced that there are only about five men in this part of the country who could have done such a perfect job of trimming. It takes a profound knowledge of the Scottish terrier and long years of experience to produce a contour and a balance of coat like this one. William Prentice could have done it; and George Wimberly, and Jimmy McNab, and Ellery Burke, and Steve Parton."

    Vance walked round the dog several times, studying her.

    "Wimberly is in Boston, so we may eliminate him on the grounds of distance. McNab is working in a private capacity for a kennel on Long Island, and I hardly think he would qualify. Both Burke and Parton are fairly distant from New York, although they are certainly possibilities."

    He knelt down and ran his hand over the contour of the dog's neck and lifted the hair along the spine. Then he stood up.

    "William Prentice! That's the chap. That outline of the neck and the back has been achieved by a master hand, and there's no greater master at that in this country than Prentice. Furthermore, he's only a short distance from New York. . . . I think I'll try him first. If he did trim this dog he may be able to give us some information as to her ownership."

    As soon as Markham had left us that morning, we drove to Mr. Prentice's famous Barlae Kennels at Haworth, New Jersey. Mr. Prentice, a middle-aged Scotsman with a dour demeanor but a twinkle in his blue eyes, stepped out of the main kennel as we alighted from the car. He took one look at the dog in Vance's arms.

    "How d' ye do, Mr. Vance," was his greeting. (Vance had known him for years: Prentice had handled many of his dogs in the ring.) "A good one, yon bitch."

    "You know her then?" asked Vance eagerly.

    "Ay."

    "And you trimmed her?"

    "Ay."

    "And about how long ago might that be?"

    "I couldna say exactly, but it was after the first of September."

    "Whose bitch is it?"

    "That I couldna say. A lady and a gentleman drove up one afternoon and asked me if I could trim the dog at once. I said 'ay,' and I trimmed it."

    Vance seemed disappointed.

    "Was anything else said?" he asked.

    "The gentleman said he wanted the bitch put in show condition."

    "Ah! And have you seen her at any of the shows since then?"

    Prentice shook his head thoughtfully. "I've been showing mostly Cairns this fall."

    "What sort of man brought the dog to you? Could you describe him?"

    "Ay. He was a large man, around fifty, and he had little enough to say."

    "And the woman?"

    "She was young and not difficult to look at."

    "A blonde?"

    "Ay."

    "His daughter, perhaps?"

    A shrewd twinkle came into the Scotsman's eyes.

    "I hae me doots," was all he vouchsafed. Vance remained at the Barlae Kennels for perhaps half an hour, discussing dogs. On the way home he seemed in better spirits.

    "In any event, Van," he said, "we can now go ahead with a certain assurance of success. If only Prentice had taken the owner's name and address, how simple everything would have been."

    Returning to his apartment, he telephoned to the American Kennel Club and obtained the names of the Scottish terrier judges in the six shows he had selected as the most likely ones where the bitch might have been exhibited.

    The six judges turned out to be Marguerite Kirmse, Karl B. Smith, Edwin Megargee, William MacBain, Morgan Stinemetz, and Robert D. Hartshorne.

    Vance glanced down the list of names he had made. "Now, let us see. . . . I can probably find most of these judges in the city. Mr. Hartshorne and Mr. Smith may be at their offices, although it is Columbus Day. And at this time of year Mrs. Cole is generally in New York.[26] I may find Mr. Megargee in his studio. Mr. MacBain is somewhere in Wall Street, I believe; and Mr. Stinemetz surely must have an office in New York. . . . Let's see what we can find out."

    He turned to the telephone and kept it busy for the best part of half an hour. Then he rose and took the dog in his arms.

    "Come, Van, our itiner'ry begins."

    A few minutes later we were in Vance's car, headed for the financial district.

    We had to wait some time before Mr. Hartshorne returned to his office from the floor of the Exchange. He showed a keen interest in the dog and went over her carefully. But he could not remember having judged her in the show at which he had officiated. He said he would have been sure to have remembered her because of her outstanding qualities; but he was unable to give us any help.

    Mr. MacBain was not in his office that day, because of the holiday. But we found Mr. Karl Smith at the New Cosmopolite Club. Mr. Smith, however, was unable to help us. He was quite sure that the dog had not been shown under him; so we went south again to Union Square to call on Mr. Megargee.

    Mr. Megargee was in his studio, working on a large canvas of twelve of the famous Tapscot Cairn champions. But here again we met with disappointment, for he was not able to identify the dog as having been entered in the show at which he judged.

    "Although there was a good entry," Mr. Megargee explained to Vance, "I know practically every dog and bitch that got in the ribbons that day, and this one was certainly not among them, or she would have taken the blue in either the puppy or the novice class."

    Things began to appear discouraging, and Vance was not in the best humor as we drove to the east-side winter studio of Mrs. Marguerite Kirmse Cole.

    Mr. and Mrs. Cole, owners of the Tobermory Kennels, greeted us graciously and did everything they could to help Vance out of his quandary. But to no avail. Mrs. Cole was positive the dog had not been an entry under her judgeship.

    We stayed for a short time, looking at her lovely paintings and etchings of dogs,[27] and then returned to Vance's apartment for a belated luncheon.

    It was past four in the afternoon when we arrived at Mr. William MacBain's Diehard Kennels in Closter, New Jersey. Mr. MacBain, who was then vice-president of the Scottish Terrier Club of America, was busily engaged with some of his young stock. He was most gracious when Vance asked for his assistance. He showed an intense interest in the dog that Vance had brought to him, but was unable to identify her.

    "But there's unquestionably Ornsay blood in her," he said, running his hand over her skull.

    Mr. MacBain was too old a breeder in the Scottish terrier fancy not to have remembered the dog at once if he had judged her, and when he shook his head in answer to Vance's query there was no doubt whatever that Vance had drawn another blank in his investigation of the wounded dog's ownership.

    Vance had succeeded in locating the New York office of Mr. Stinemetz, but, on phoning, learned that he was not in the city that day but could undoubtedly be found at his country home.

    Mr. Stinemetz's estate in Orangeburg was only a few miles from the Diehard Kennels and we headed for it somewhat despondently. The sun was setting over the Jersey hills and a cool breeze came up from the southwest.

    "This is almost our last chance," Vance observed dejectedly, "—unless the dog has been shown in New England or the south. But if that were the case, why is she here in New York now?"

    Vance was downcast: I realized for the first time how much he had counted on this stray Scottish terrier to help him in the solution of the crime which was perplexing him. But it was just at the moment when things seemed darkest that a ray of light was introduced into the situation. It was Mr. Stinemetz—the last of the judges we consulted—who gave Vance the information he was seeking.

    Mr. Stinemetz was in his kennel, feeding his dogs, when we arrived. Vance showed him the little lost bitch and asked him if he had ever judged her. Mr. Stinemetz looked at her closely for a moment, took her in his arms and stood her on the show table in his main kennel.

    "Yes," he said slowly, after a minute's inspection; "I not only judged her, but I put her up, three weeks ago at Englewood. She won the puppy bitch class, and I would have given her a first instead of a second in the novice class, if she had shown properly. For she has the quality, and if correctly handled should go over the top. But, as I remember, some young woman with little or no experience brought her into the ring. Naturally, she could get no response from the dog. I tried to help her out, but it was hopeless; and I had to give the blue to a bitch that had the style and the ring manners, but who wasn't this one's equal in anatomy. . . . There was one slight fault in the mouth, however."

    Mr. Stinemetz held back the dog's lips, exposing her teeth.

    "You see this upper incisor: it's out of place. But it's not a serious fault. There's many a champion with a much worse mouth."

    Vance thanked him for his help and added: "Do you happen to know what bitch this is, or who owns her?"

    Mr. Stinemetz shook his head.

    "No, I never saw her before—she must be a newcomer. I didn't see a catalogue of the show and there were no post mortems at the judge's table after the show."[28]

    Vance left Mr. Stinemetz's Quince Hill Kennels in a much happier frame of mind.

    "Tomorrow," he said, as we drove home through the gathering dusk, "we will know the owner's name."

    Immediately upon our arrival in New York, Vance telephoned to Markham at his home, and learned that there had been no developments in the case during the day. Grassi had returned to the Coe house at eleven o'clock that morning, evidently very little the worse for his experience of the previous night. He had wished to go to a hotel, but Markham had prevailed upon him to remain at the Coe residence until some light had filtered into the case, and Grassi had reluctantly agreed to do so.

    Wrede had remained indoors all day and had telephoned to Markham twice and offered to give whatever assistance he could.

    Hilda Lake had gone out about ten o'clock in the morning, dressed in sport clothes. When Heath had asked her where she was going, she had told him nonchalantly that she was going to take a drive in the country.

    Sergeant Heath had remained on duty most of the day, but his labors had consisted in the main of answering phone calls and trying to pacify a small army of reporters with news of purely imaginary "developments." The den window-sill had been gone over carefully for finger-prints, but without results. A general routine investigation had been put in operation by the Sergeant, but, aside from this, nothing had been done.

    "The case has me bogged," Markham complained sadly at dinner that night. (We had joined him, at his request, at the Stuyvesant Club.) "I see no way out of the situation. Even if we knew who committed the crimes, we couldn't show how they were accomplished—unless the guilty person himself chose to tell us. . . . And that attack on Grassi: instead of helping us, it has only put us deeper into the well. And there's nothing to take hold of. All the ordinary avenues of investigation are closed. Heaven knows there are enough people who might have done it—and there are enough motives for a dozen murders."

    "Sad . . . sad," sighed Vance. "My heart bleeds for you, don't y' know. Still, there's some simple explanation. It's a deucedly complicated puzzle—a cryptogram with apparently meaningless words. But once we have the key letter, the rest of it will fall into place. And the key letter may be the Scottie. I'm hopin' for the best."

    He applied himself for a moment to his salad.

    "A bit of Beluga caviar," he drawled, "would improve this Russian dressing."

    "Shall I report the oversight to the Club's board of governors, Monsieur Brillat-Savarin?"

    "Oh, don't bother," Vance returned dulcetly. "They'd probably add salted caviar and ruin the dressing completely. . . . You might, however, confide in me the exact condition of the Coe domicile tonight."

    "There's little to confide," Markham told him acerbitously. "Heath has done the usual things and gone home. However, he's left two men on guard, one in the street and one at the rear of the house. Grassi has remained in his room all day,—Heath's last report to me was that the gentleman had gone to bed. The lock on his door, by the way, has been fixed; so he'll probably live the night through. Miss Lake came in just as the Sergeant was going. . . . By the way, she took the news of Grassi's stabbing rather hard—"

    Vance looked up quickly.

    "I say, that's most interestin'."

    "The Chinaman did not leave the house," Markham continued, "and told Heath he preferred to remain until the guilty person had been brought to justice."

    "I do hope he hasn't too long to wait," Vance sighed. "But it's just as well if Liang stays with us. I feel that he's going to be most helpful to us anon. . . . And you, Markham, old dear: what have you been doing? Milk investigations, I suppose—and committees of eminent citizens who wish to uplift the drama—and interviews with aldermen."

    "That's about all," Markham confessed. "What would you have suggested?"

    "Really, Markham, I hadn't a suggestion today." Vance leaned back in his chair. "But tomorrow—"

    "You're so helpful and satisfying," Markham snapped. "'Morgen, morgen, nur nicht heute; sagen immer träge Leute.'"

    "Markham—my very dear Markham!" Vance protested reprovingly. "Really, don't y' know, I'm not lazy. I give you Cicero: 'Aliquod crastinus dies ad cogitandum dabit.'"