At three o'clock that afternoon Joe Hanley, who had been watching for us, came to the corner of Seventh Avenue and informed us that Mirche had entered his office shortly after noon, and that neither he nor Miss Del Marr had been seen in the cafe since then.

    We found the blinds at the narrow windows drawn; the door to the office was locked; nor was there any response to our insistent knocking.

    "Open up, you!" Heath bawled ferociously. "Or have I gotta bust in the door?" Then he remarked to us: "I guess that'll scare 'em, if anybody's there."

    Soon we could hear the sound of scuffling and angry voices inside; and a few moments later the door was unlocked for us by Hennessey.

    "It's okay now, sir," he said to Markham. "They tried to sneak out the wall door, but Burke and I forced em back."

    As we stepped across the threshold, a strange sight met our eyes. Burke stood with his back against the little secret door, his gun pointed significantly at the startled Mirche who was but a few steps away. Dixie Del Marr, also in line with Burke's gun, was leaning against the desk, looking at us with an expression of cold resignation. In one of the leather chairs sat Owen, smiling faintly with calm cynicism. He seemed entirely dissociated from the general tableau, like a spectator viewing a theatrical scene which offended his intellect by its absurdity. He looked neither to right nor left; and it was not until we were well within range of his somnolent gaze, that he made the slightest movement.

    When he caught sight of Vance, however, he rose wearily and bowed in formal greeting.

    "What futile effort," he complained. Then he sat down again with a mild sigh, like one who feels he must remain to the end of a distasteful drama.

    Hennessey closed the door and stood alertly watching the occupants of the room. Burke, at a sign from Heath, let his hand fall to his side, but maintained a stolid vigilance.

    "Sit down, Mr. Mirche," said Vance. "Merely a little discussion."

    As the white and frightened man dropped into a chair at the desk, Vance bowed politely to Miss Del Marr.

    "It isn't necess'ry for you to stand."

    "I prefer it," the woman said in a hard tone. "I've been sitting and waiting, as it were, for three years now."

    Vance accepted her cryptic remark without comment, and turned his attention back to Mirche.

    "We have discussed preferences in foods and wines at some length," he said casually; "and I was wondering what private brand of cigarettes you favour."

    The man seemed paralyzed with fear. But quickly he recovered himself; a semblance of his former suavity returned. He made a creaking noise intended for a laugh.

    "I have no private brand," he declared. "I always smoke—"

    "No, no," Vance interrupted. "I mean your very private brand—reserved for the elect."

    Mirche laughed again, and gestured broadly with upturned palms to indicate the question conveyed no meaning to him.

    "By the by," Vance went on; "in medieval times—when Madam Tofana and other famous poisoners flourished—there were many flowers which, romantic legend tells us, would bring death with a single whiff... Strange how these legends persist and how examples of their apparent authenticity crop up in modern times. One wonders, don't y' know, whether the old secrets of alchemy have indeed been preserved to the present day. Of course, such speculations are absurd in the light of modern science."

    "I don't see your point." Mirche spoke with an attempt at injured dignity. "Nor do I understand this outrageous invasion of my privacy."

    Vance ignored the man for a moment and addressed Miss Del Marr.

    "You have perhaps lost an unusual cigarette-case of checkerboard design? When it was found it had the scent of jonquille and rose. A vagrant association—it recalled you, Miss Del Marr."

    No change was detectable in the woman's hard expression, although she hesitated perceptibly before answering.

    "It isn't mine. I believe, though, I know the case you mean. I saw it in this office last Saturday; and that evening Mr. Mirche showed it to me. He had carried it for hours in his pocket—perhaps that's how it took on the smell. Where did you find it, Mr. Vance? I was told it had been left here by one of the cafe employees...Maybe Mr. Mirche could——"

    "I know nothing of such a cigarette-case," Mirche stated bluntly. There was a startled energy in his words. He threw a defiant glance at the woman, but her back was to him.

    "It doesn't matter, does it?" said Vance. "Only a passing thought."

    His eyes were still on Miss Del Marr; and he spoke to her again.

    "You know, of course, that Benny Pellinzi is dead."

    "Yes—I know." Her words carried no emotion.

    "Strange coincidence about that. Or, mayhap, just a vagary of mine." Vance spoke as if he were merely making some matter-of-fact point. "Pellinzi died last Saturday afternoon, shortly after he would have had time to reach New York. At about that time I happened to be wandering in the woods in Riverdale. And as I started to retrace my steps homeward, a large car drove swiftly by. Later I learned that a lighted cigarette had been thrown from that car, almost at the very spot where I had stood. It was a most peculiar cigarette. Miss Del Marr. Only a few puffs had been taken on it. But that wasn't its only peculiarity. There was a deadly poison in it, too—the modern equivalent of the fabulous poisoned flowers that figured in medieval tragedies. And yet, it had been carelessly tossed away on a public highway..."

    "A stupid act," came in soft, caustic tones from Owen.

    "Fortuitous, let us say—from the finite point of view. Inevitable, really." Vance also spoke softly. "There is only one pattern in all the universe."

    "Yes," said Owen with arctic vagueness. "Stupidity is one of the compositional lines."

    Vance did not turn. He was still scrutinizing the woman.

    "May I continue, Miss Del Marr?" he asked. "Or does my story bore you?"

    She gave no indication that she had heard his query.

    "The cigarette-case I mentioned," Vance went on, "was found on Pellinzi's body. But there were no cigarettes in it. And it had no pungent aroma of the bitter almond—only the sweet scent of jonquille and rose...But Pellinzi was poisoned as by the smelling of a scent. And again there crops up the deadly agent of ancient romance...Strange—is it not?—how the fancy conjures up such remote associations...Poor Pellinzi must have believed and trusted in his assassin. But all that his faith encountered was treachery and death."

    Vance paused. There was a tenseness in the small room. Only Owen seemed unconcerned. He looked straight ahead, with a hopeless detached expression, a sneer distorting his cruel mouth.

    When Vance spoke again, his manner had changed: there was brusque severity in his voice.

    "But perhaps I am not so fanciful, after all. Whom else but you, Miss Del Marr, would Pellinzi first have told of his safe arrival in New York? And how could he have known, these past few years, that someone else had sought and found a response in a heart which had once belonged to him? You have a large enclosed car, Miss Del Marr—a secret trip to Riverdale would have been an easy matter for you. The cigarette-case, with your subtle fragrance, was found on him. Love changes, and is cruel..."

    An icy chuckle came from Owen. His eyebrows went up slightly. The sneer on his lips changed to the faint semblance of a smile.

    "Very clever, Mr. Vance," he muttered. "Admirable, in fact. Patterns within patterns. How easily man is deceived by fantasms!"

    "The deceptive order of chaos," said Vance.

    Owen nodded almost imperceptibly. His face again became a satirical mask.

    "Yes," he breathed. "You, too, have a sense of esoteric humour."

    "I doubt," murmured Vance, "that Miss Del Marr appreciates the humour of death."

    A strangled moan burst from the woman's throat. She collapsed into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

    "Oh, God!" It was the first break in her metallic composure.

    A long silence followed. Mirche looked for a moment at Vance and back again at the woman. His face had regained some of its colour, but a haunted fear shone in his eyes—a fear as of a malignant ghost whose shape he could not determine. I knew that questions he dared not utter were crowding to his lips. Slowly the woman raised her head; her hands dropped to her lap and lay there in an attitude of listless dejection. The venomous hardness of her nature regained control. She was about to speak; but she, too, checked the impulse, as if the gauge of her emotions had not yet reached the point of release.

    Vance slowly lighted one of his Regies. After one or two puffs, he spoke again to the woman, and his words sounded lackadaisical, as if he were putting a question of no particular moment.

    "There is still one thing that puzzles me. Miss Del Marr...Why did you bring the dead Pellinzi back here to this office?"

    The woman sat like a marble image, while a disdainful cackle broke from Mirche.

    "Are you referring, Mr. Vance," he asked, in his erstwhile pompous manner, "to the man found dead in this office? I'm beginning to understand your interest in the unfortunate episode here Saturday night. But I fear you have permitted your imagination to get the better of you. The body found here was that of one of the cafe helpers."

    "Yes, I know whom you mean, Mr. Mirche. Philip Allen." Vance spoke smoothly. "As you said that night. And I have no doubt that you believed it, and still believe it. But seeming facts act strangely at times. A pattern is prone to change its design in the most incredible manner... Is it not true, Mr. Owen?"

    "Always true," replied the quiet spectator in the chair. "Confusion. We are victims..."

    "What are you two driving at?" asked Mirche, half rising from his chair, as a dawning fear came into his eyes.

    "The truth is, Mr. Mirche," said Vance, "Philip Allen is quite alive. After you had discharged him and he accidentally left a cigarette-case here which did not belong to him, Philip Allen did not return to this office."

    "Ridiculous!" Mirche had lost his suavity. "How else could he—?"

    "It was Benny Pellinzi who lay dead here that night!"

    At this announcement Mirche dropped suddenly back into his chair, and stared with hopeless defiance at the man before him. But the facts had not yet arranged themselves in his mind; and he began to protest anew.

    "That's absurd—utterly absurd! I saw Allen's body myself. And I identified it."

    "Oh, I don't question the sincerity of your identification." Vance moved closer to the dazed man. His tone was almost honeyed. "You had every reason to think that it was Philip Allen. He is the same size as Pellinzi. He has the same facial contours and colouring, and that day he was wearing the same kind of unobtrusive black clothes in which Pellinzi was sent to his death. You had just talked with Philip Allen in your office a few hours earlier, and, as you said to me yesterday, you were not surprised that he should have come back here. Moreover, death by poison changes the look in the eyes, the whole general appearance of the face. And, furthermore, wasn't Pellinzi the last person in the world you would have expected to find in your office on that particular night? Yes, the last person in the world..."

    "But why—," stammered Mirche, "why should Pellinzi have been the last person I would have expected? I knew by the papers that the man had escaped. And it was wholly possible that he would have been fool enough to come to me for help."

    "No—oh, no. I do not mean just that, Mr. Mirche," Vance returned quietly. "I had another and more cogent reason for knowing you would not expect to find Pellinzi here that night...You knew he was dead in Riverdale."

    "How could I have known that he was dead?" shouted the frantic man, leaping to his feet. "You yourself said it was Dixie Del Marr to whom he would have appealed first, and—her car—her trip to Riverdale——Bah!...You can't intimidate me!"

    "Then take it more calmly, Dan," said Owen petulantly. "There's far too much upheaval in this putrid world. Confusion wearies me."

    "Again I fear you have misunderstood me, Mr. Mirche." Vance ignored Owen's complaint to his frightened henchman. "I meant merely that Miss Del Marr must have informed you. I am sure you two have no secrets from each other. Complete mutual trust, even in crime. And, knowing that Pellinzi was dead in Riverdale, and that your—shall we say, partner?—would hardly bring the body here, how could you imagine that the dead man in this office that night was Pellinzi? How natural to make a mistake in identity! Y' see: it couldn't be Pellinzi; therefore, it must be someone else. And how readily—and logically—Philip Allen came to your mind...But it was Pellinzi."

    "How do you know it was Benny—?" Mirche was floundering, dazed by some inner mental vision. "You're trying to trick me." Then he almost shrieked: "I tell you, it couldn't have been the Buzzard!"

    "Ah, yes. An error on your part." Vance spoke with quiet authority. "No possible doubt. Fingerprints don't lie. You may ask Sergeant Heath, or the District Attorney. Or you may phone the Police Department and satisfy yourself."

    "Fool!" snapped Owen, his drowsy eyes on Mirche with a look of unutterable disgust. He turned to Vance. "After all, how futile it is—this devilish dream—this shadow across..." His voice trailed off.

    Mirche was staring at some distant point beyond the confines of the room, alone with his thoughts, striving to assemble a disrupted mass of facts.

    "But," he mumbled, as if protesting weakly against some inevitable shapeless nemesis, "Miss Del Marr saw the body here, and..."

    He lapsed again into calculating silence; and then a deep flush slowly mounted his features, gradually intensifying in colour till it seemed the blood must suffocate him. The muscles of his neck tightened; globules of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead.

    Stiffly, and as if with effort, the man turned toward Miss Del Marr, and in a voice of seething hatred, spat out at her a foul and bestial epithet.