Vance remained in Markham's office only a short time after his enigmatic talk with Heath. (I did not regard that brief conversation as particularly momentous at the time, but within a few hours I learned that it was actually one of the most important conversations that had ever passed between these two widely disparate, but mutually sympathetic, men.)

    Markham attempted repeatedly, with both cajolery and brusqueness, to draw Vance out. The District Attorney wished particularly to hear what significance Vance attached to the missing alexandrite, and what import he had sensed in the two notes which Kenting and Fleel had brought in. Vance, however, was unusually grave and adamant. He would give no excuse for not expressing freely his theory regarding the case; but his manner was such that Markham realized, as did I, that Vance had an excellent reason for temporarily withholding his suspicions from the District Attorney—and, I might add, from me as well.

    In the end Markham was highly annoyed and, I think, somewhat resentful.

    "I trust you know, Vance," he said in a tone intended to be coldly formal, but which did not entirely disguise his deep-rooted respect for the peculiar methods Vance followed in his investigation of a case, "that, as official head of the Police Department, I can compel Sergeant Heath here to show me that slip of paper you handed him."

    "I fully appreciate that fact," Vance replied in a tone equally as frigid as Markham's. "But I also know you will not do it." Only once, during the investigation of the Bishop murder case, had I seen so serious an expression in Vance's eyes. "I know I can trust you to do nothing of the kind, and to forgo your technical rights in this instance." His voice suddenly softened and a look of genuine affection overspread his face as he added: "I want your confidence until tonight—I want you to believe that I have good and specific reasons for my seemingly boorish obstinacy."

    Markham kept his eyes on Vance for several moments and then glanced away as he busied himself a little ostentatiously with a cigar.

    "You're a damned nuisance," he mumbled, with simulated anger. "I wish I had never seen you."

    "Do you flatter yourself, for one minute, Markham," retorted Vance, "that I have particularly enjoyed your acquaintance during the past fifteen years?"

    And then Vance did something I had never seen him do before. He took a step toward Markham and held out his hand. Markham turned to him without any show of surprise and grasped his hand with sincere cordiality.

    "After all," said Vance lightly, "you're only a District Attorney, don't y' know. I'll make due allowances." And he went from the room without another word, leaving the Sergeant and Markham in the room together.

    Vance and I had luncheon at the Caviar Restaurant, and he lingered unconscionably long over his favorite brandy, which they always kept for him and brought out ceremoniously when he appeared at that restaurant. During the meal he spoke but infrequently—and then about subjects far removed from the Kenting case.

    We went directly home after he had finished sipping his cognac, and Vance spent the entire afternoon in desultory reading in the library. I went into the room for some papers around four o'clock and noticed that he was engrossed in Erasmus' Encomium Moriæ.

    As I stood for a moment behind him, looking discreetly over his shoulder, he looked up with a serious expression: he had settled into a studious mood.

    "After all, Van," he commented, "what would the world be without folly? Nothing matters vitally—does it? Listen to this comfortin' thought:"—he ran his finger along the Erasmus passage before him and translated the words slowly—"'So likewise all this life of mortal man, what is it but a certain kind of stage play?' . . . Same like Shakespeare wrote in As You Like It, which came a century later—what?"

    Vance was in a peculiar humor, and I knew he was endeavoring to cover up what was actually in his mind; and for some reason, which I could not understand, I was prompted to quote to him, in answer, the famous line from Horace's Epistles: Nec lusisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum. However, I refrained, and went on about my work as Vance took up his book again.

    A little before six o'clock Markham came in unexpectedly.

    "Well, Vance," he said banteringly, "I suppose you're still indulging your flair for melodramatic reticence, and are still playing the part of l'homme de mystère. However, I'll respect your idiosyncrasies—with tongue in cheek, of course."

    "Most generous of you," murmured Vance. "I'm overwhelmed. . . . What do you wish to tell me? I know full well you didn't come all the way to my humble diggin's without some sad message for me."

    Markham sobered and sat down near Vance.

    "I haven't heard yet from either Fleel or Kenting. . . ." he began.

    "I rather expected that bit of news." Vance rose and, ringing for Currie, ordered Dubonnet. Then, as he resumed his seat, he went on. "Really, there's nothing to worry about. They have probably decided to proceed without the bunglin' assistance of the police this time—those last notes were pretty insistent on that point. Kenting undoubtedly has received his instructions. . . . By the by, have you tried to communicate with him?"

    Markham nodded gravely.

    "I tried to reach him at his office an hour ago, and was told he had gone home. I called him there, but the butler told me he had come in and had just gone out without leaving any instructions except that he would not be home for dinner."

    "Not what you'd call a highly cooperative johnnie—what?"

    The Dubonnet was served, and Vance sipped the wine placidly.

    "Of course, you tried to reach him at the Purple House?"

    "Of course I did," Markham answered. "But he wasn't there either and wasn't expected there."

    "Very interestin'," murmured Vance. "Elusive chap. Food for thought, Markham. Think it over."

    "I also tried to get in touch with Fleel," Markham continued doggedly. "But he, like Kenting it seems, had left his office earlier than usual today; nor was I able to reach him at his home."

    "Two missin' men," commented Vance. "Very sad. But no need to be upset. Just a private matter being handled privately, I fear. District Attorney's office and the police not bein' trusted. Not entirely unintelligent." He set down his Dubonnet glass. "But there's business afoot, or else I'm horribly mistaken. And what can you do? The actors in the tragic drama refuse to make an appearance. Most disconcertin', from the official point of view. The only thing left for you is to ring down the curtain temporarily, and bide your time. C'est la fin de la pauvre Manon—or words to that effect. Abominable opera. Incidentally, what are your plans for the evening?"

    "I have to get dressed and attend a damned silly banquet tonight," grumbled Markham.

    "It'll probably do you good," said Vance. "And when you make your speech, you can solemnly assure your bored listeners that the situation is under control, and that developments are expected very soon—or golden words to that effect."

    Markham remained a short time longer and then went out. Vance resumed his interrupted reading.

    Shortly after seven we had a simple home dinner which Currie served to us in the library, consisting of gigot, rissoulées potatoes, fresh mint jelly, asparagus hollandaise, and savarins à la Medicis.

    Promptly at half-past eight the Sergeant arrived.

    "I still think you're daffy, Mr. Vance," he said good-naturedly, as he took a long drink of Bourbon. "However, everything is being attended to."

    "If I'm wrong, Sergeant," said Vance with pretended entreaty, "you must never divulge our little secret. The humiliation would be far too great. And I'm waxin' old and sensitive."

    Heath chuckled and poured himself another glass of Bourbon. As he did so Vance went to the centre-table and, opening the drawer, brought out an automatic. He inspected it carefully, made sure the magazine was full, and then slipped it into his pocket.

    I had risen and was now standing beside him. I reached out my hand for the other automatic in the drawer—the one I had carried in Central Park the night before—but Vance quickly closed the drawer and, turning to me, shook his head in negation.

    "Sorry, Van," he said, "but I think you'd better bide at home tonight. This may be a very dangerous mission—or it may be an erroneous guess on my part. However, I rather anticipate trouble, and you'll be safer in your boudoir. . . ."

    I became indignant and insisted that I go with him and share whatever danger the night might hold.

    Again Vance shook his head.

    "I think not, Van." He spoke in a strangely gentle tone. "No need whatever for you to take the risk. I'll tell you all about it when the Sergeant and I return."

    He smiled with finality, but I became more insistent and more indignant, and told him frankly that, whether he gave me the gun or not, I intended to go along with him and Heath.

    Vance studied me for several moments.

    "All right, Van," he said at length. "But don't forget that I warned you." Without saying any more he swung about to the table, opened the drawer, and brought out the other automatic. "I suggest you keep it in your outside pocket this time," he advised, as he handed me the gun. "It's rather difficult to prophesy, don't y' know—though I'm hopin' you won't need the bally thing." Then, going to the window, he looked out for a moment. "It'll be dark by the time we get there." He turned slowly from the window and crossed the room to ring for Currie.

    When the butler came into the room Vance looked at him for a while in silence, with a kindly smile.

    "If you don't hear from me by eleven," he said, "go to bed. And schlafen Sie wohl! If I am not back in the morning, you will find some interesting legal documents in a blue envelope with your name on it, in the upper right-hand drawer of the secret'ry. And notify Mr. Markham." He turned round to Heath with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. "Come along, Sergeant," he said. "Let's be on our way. Duty calls, as the sayin' goes. Ich dien, and all that sort of twaddle."

    We went down to the street in silence—Vance's instructions to Currie had struck me as curiously portentous. We got into Vance's car, which was waiting outside, Heath and I in the tonneau and Vance at the wheel.

    Vance was an expert driver, and he handled the Hispano-Suiza with a quiet efficiency and care that made the long, low-slung car seem almost something animate. There was never the slightest sound of enmeshing gears, never the slightest jerk, as he stopped and started the car in the flow of traffic.

    We drove up Fifth Avenue to its northern end, and there crossed the Harlem River into the Bronx. At the far side of the bridge Vance stopped the car and drew a folded map from his pocket.

    "No need to lose ourselves in this maze of crisscrossing avenues," he remarked to us over his shoulder. "Since we know where we're going, we might as well mark the route." He had unfolded the map and was tracing an itinerary at one side of it. "Westchester Avenue will take us at least half of the way to our destination; and then if I can work my way through to Bassett Avenue we should have no further difficulties."

    He placed the map on the seat beside him and drove on. At the intersection of East 177th Street he made a sharp turn to the left, and we skirted the grounds of the New York Catholic Protectory. After a few more turns a street sign showed that we were on Bassett Avenue, and Vance continued to the north. At its upper end we found ourselves at a small stretch of water,[28] and Vance again stopped the car to consult his map.

    "I've gone a little too far," he informed us, as he took the wheel again and turned the car sharply to the left, at right angles with Bassett Avenue. "But I'll go through to the next avenue—Waring, I think it is—turn south there, and park the car just round the corner from Lord Street. The number we're looking for should be there or thereabouts."

    It took a few minutes to make the detour, for the roadway was unsuitable for automobile traffic. Vance shut off all his lights as we approached the corner, and we drove the last half block in complete darkness, as the nearest street light was far down Waring Avenue. The gliding Hispano-Suiza made no sound under Vance's efficient handling; even the closing of the doors, as we got out, could not be heard more than a few feet away.

    We proceeded on foot into Lord Street, a narrow thoroughfare and sparsely inhabited. Here and there was an old wooden shack, standing out, in the darkness of the night, as a black patch against the overcast sky.

    "It would be on this side of the street," Vance said, in a low, vibrant voice. "This is the even-number side. My guess is it's that next two-story structure, just beyond this vacant lot."

    "I think you're right at that," Heath returned, sotto voce.

    When we stood in front of the small frame dwelling, it seemed particularly black. There was no light showing at any of the windows. Until we accustomed our eyes to the darkness it looked as if the place had no windows at all.

    Heath tiptoed up the three sagging wooden steps that led to the narrow front porch and flashed his light close to the door. Crudely painted on the lintel was the number we sought. The Sergeant beckoned to us with a sweeping gesture of his arm, and Vance and I joined him silently before the wooden-panelled front door with its nondescript peeling paint. At one side of the door was an old-fashioned bell-pull with a white knob, and Vance gave it a tentative jerk.

    There was a faint tinkle inside, and we stood waiting, filled with misgivings and not knowing what to expect. I saw Heath slip his hand into the pocket where he carried his gun; and I too—by instinct or imitation—dropped my hand into my right outside coat pocket and, grasping my automatic, shifted the safety release.

    After a long delay, during which we remained there without a sound, we heard a leisurely shifting of the bolts. The door then opened a few inches, and the pinched yellow face of an undersized Chinaman peered out cautiously at us.

    As I stood there, straining my eyes through the partly open door at the yellow face that looked inquisitively out at us, the significance of the imprint of the Chinese sandals at the foot of the ladder, as well as of the Sinological nature of the signatures of the various ransom notes, flashed through my mind. I knew in that brief moment that Vance had interpreted the address correctly, and that we had come to the right house. Although I had not doubted the accuracy of Vance's prognostication, a chill swept over me as I stared at the flat yellow features of the small man on the other side of the door.

    Vance immediately wedged his foot in the slight aperture and forced the door inward with his shoulder. Before us, in the dingy light of a gas jet which hung from the ceiling far back in the hall, was a Chinaman, clad in black pajamas and a pair of sandals. He was barely five feet tall.

    "What you want?" he asked, in an antagonistic, falsetto voice, backing away quickly against the wall to the right of the door.

    "We want to speak to Mrs. Kenting," said Vance, scarcely above a whisper.

    "She not here," the Chinaman answered. "Me no know Missy Kenting. Nobody here. You have wrong house. Go away."

    Vance had already stepped inside, and in a flash he drew a large handkerchief from his outer breast pocket and crushed it against the Chinaman's mouth, pinioning him against the wall. Then I noticed the reason for Vance's act:—only a foot or so away was an old-fashioned push-bell toward which the Chinaman had been slyly reaching. The man stood back against the wall under Vance's firm pressure, as if he felt that any effort to escape would be futile.

    Then, with the most amazing quickness and dexterity, he forced his head upward and leaped on Vance, like a wrestler executing a flying tackle, and twined his legs about Vance's waist, at the same time throwing his arms round Vance's neck. It was an astonishing feat of nimble accuracy.

    But, with a movement almost as quick as the Chinaman's, Heath, who was standing close to Vance, brought the butt of his revolver down on the yellow man's head with terrific force. The Chinaman's legs disentangled themselves; his arms relaxed; his head fell back; and he began slipping limply to the floor. Vance caught him and eased him down noiselessly. Leaning over for a moment, he looked at the Chinaman by the flame of his cigarette lighter, and then straightened up.

    "He's good for an hour, at least, Sergeant," he said in a hoarse whisper. "My word! You're so brutal. . . . He was trying to reach that bell signal. The others must be upstairs." He moved silently toward the narrow carpeted stairway that led above. "This is a damnable situation. Keep your guns handy, both of you, and don't touch the banister—it may creak."

    As we filed noiselessly up the dimly-lit stairs, Vance leading the way, Heath just behind him, and I bringing up the rear, I was assailed by a terrifying premonition of disaster. There was something sinister in the atmosphere of that house; and I imagined that grave danger lurked in the deep shadows above us. I grasped my automatic more firmly, and a sensation of alertness seized me as if my brain had suddenly been swept clear of everything but the apprehension of what might lie ahead. . . .

    It seemed an unreasonably long time before we reached the upper landing—a sensation like a crazy hasheesh distortion—and I felt myself struggling to regain a sense of reality.

    As Vance stepped into the hallway above, which was narrower and dingier than the one downstairs, he stood tensely still for a moment, looking about him. There was only one small lighted gas jet at the rear of the hall. Luckily, the floor was covered with an old worn runner which deadened our footsteps as we followed Vance up the hall. Suddenly the muffled sound of voices came to us, but we could not distinguish any words. Vance moved stealthily toward the front of the house and stood before the only door on the left of the corridor. A line of faint light outlined the threshold, and it was now evident that the voices came from within that room.

    After listening a moment Vance tried the doorknob with extreme care. To our surprise the door was not locked, but swung back easily into a long, narrow, squalid room in the centre of which stood a plain deal table. At one end of the table, by the light of an oil lamp, two illy dressed men sat playing casino, judging by the distribution of the cards.

    Though the room was filled with cigarette smoke, I immediately recognized one of the men as the shabby figure I had seen leaning against the bench in Central Park the night before. The lamp furnished the only illumination in the room, and dark grey blankets, hanging in full folds from over the window-frames, let no ray of light escape either at the front or side window.

    The two men sprang to their feet instantaneously, turning in our direction.

    "Down, Van!" ordered Vance; and his call was submerged under two deafening detonations accompanied by two flashes from a revolver in the hand of the man nearest us. The bullets must have gone over us, for both Heath and I had dropped quickly to the floor at Vance's order. Almost immediately—so quickly as to be practically simultaneous—there came two reports from Vance's automatic, and I saw the man who had shot at us pitch forward. The thud of his body on the floor coincided with the crash of the lamp, knocked over by the second man. The room was plunged in complete darkness.

    "Stay down, Van!" came the commanding voice of Vance.

    Almost as he spoke there was a staccato exchange of shots. All I could see were the brilliant flashes from the automatics. To this day I cannot determine the number of shots fired that night, for they overlapped each other in such rapid succession that it was impossible to make an accurate count. I lay flat on my stomach across the door-sill, my head spinning dizzily, my muscles paralyzed with fear for Vance.

    There was a brief respite of black silence, so poignant as to be almost palpable, and then came the crash of an upset chair and the dull heavy sound of a human body striking the floor. I was afraid to move. Heath's labored breathing made a welcome noise at my side. I could not tell, in the blackness of the room, who had fallen. A terrifying dread assailed me.

    Then I heard Vance's voice—the cynical, nonchalant voice I knew so well—and my intensity of fright gave way to a feeling of relief and overpowering weakness. I felt like a drowning man, who, coming up for the third time, suddenly feels strong arms beneath his shoulders.

    "Really, y' know," his voice came from somewhere in the darkness, "there should be electric lights in this house. I saw the wires as we entered."

    He was fumbling around somewhere above me, and suddenly the Sergeant's flashlight swept over the room. I staggered to my feet and leaned limply against the casing of the door.

    "The idiot!" Vance was murmuring. "He kept his lighted cigarette in his mouth, and I was able to follow every move he made. . . . There must be a switch or a fixture somewhere. The lamp and the blankets at the window were only to give the house the appearance of being untenanted."

    The ray from Heath's pocket flash moved about the walls and ceiling, but I could see neither him nor Vance. Then the light came to a halt, and Heath's triumphant voice rang out.

    "Here it is, sir,—a socket beside the window." And as he spoke a weak, yellowed bulb dimly lit up the room.

    Heath was at the front window, his hand still on the switch of a small electric light socket; and Vance stood near-by, to all appearances cool and unconcerned. On the floor lay two motionless bodies.

    "Pleasant evening, Sergeant." Vance spoke in his usual steady, whimsical voice. "My sincerest apologies, and all that." Then he caught sight of me, and his face sobered. "Are you all right, Van?" he asked.

    I assured him I had escaped the mêlée unscathed, and added that I had not used my automatic because I was afraid I might have hit him in the dark.

    "I quite understand," he murmured and, nodding his head, he went quickly to the two prostrate bodies. After a momentary inspection, he stood up and said:

    "Quite dead, Sergeant. Really, y' know, I seem to be a fairly accurate shot."

    "I'll say!" breathed Heath with admiration. "I wasn't a hell of a lot of help, was I, Mr. Vance?" he added a bit shamefacedly.

    "Really nothing for you to do, Sergeant."

    Vance looked about him. Through a wide alcove at the far end of the room a white iron bed was clearly visible. This adjoining chamber was like a small bedroom, with only dirty red rep curtains dividing it from the main room. Vance stepped quickly between the curtains, and switched on a light just over the wooden mantel near the bed. At the rear of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a door standing half ajar. Between the mantel and the bed with its uncovered mattress, was a small bureau with a large mirror swung between two supports rising from the bureau itself.

    Heath had followed Vance into the room, and I trailed weakly after them. Vance stood before the bureau for a moment or so, looking down at the few cigarette-burnt toilet articles scattered about it. He opened the top drawer and looked into it. Then he opened the second drawer.

    "Ah!" he murmured half aloud, and reached inside.

    When he withdrew his hand he was holding a neatly rolled pair of thin Shantung-silk pajamas. He inspected them for a moment and smiled slightly.

    "The missin' pajamas," he said as if to himself, though both Heath and I heard every word he spoke. "Never been worn. Very interestin'." He unrolled them on the top of the bureau and drew forth a small green-handled toothbrush. "And the missin' toothbrush," he added. He ran his thumb over the bristles. "And quite dry. . . . The pajamas, I opine, were rolled quickly round the toothbrush and the comb, brought here, and thrown into the drawer. The comb, of course, slipped out into the hedge as the Chinaman now prostrate below descended the ladder from Kaspar Kenting's room." He re-rolled the pajamas, placed them back into the drawer, and resumed his inspection of the toilet articles on the bureau top.

    Heath and I were both near the archway, our eyes on Vance, when he suddenly called out, "Look out, Sergeant!"

    The last word had been only half completed when there came two shots from the rear door. The slim, crouching figure of a man, somewhat scholarly looking and well dressed, had suddenly appeared there.

    Vance had swung about simultaneously with his warning to Heath, and there were two more shots in rapid succession, this time from Vance's gun.

    I saw the poised revolver of blue steel drop from the raised hand of the man at the rear door: he looked round him, dazed, and both his hands went to his abdomen. He remained upright for a moment; then he doubled up and sank to the floor where he lay in an awkward crumpled heap.

    Heath's revolver too dropped from his grip. When the first shot had been fired, he had pivoted round as if some powerful unseen hand had pushed him: he staggered backward a few feet and slid heavily into a chair. Vance looked a moment at the contorted figure of the man on the floor, and then hastened to Heath.

    "The baby winged me," Heath said with an effort. "My gun jammed."

    Vance gave him a cursory examination and then smiled encouragingly.

    "Frightfully sorry, Sergeant,—it was all the fault of my trustin' nature. McLaughlin told us there were only two men in that green car, and I foolishly concluded that two gentlemen and the Chinaman would be all we should have to contend with. I should have been more far-seein'. Most humiliatin'. . . . You'll have a sore arm for a couple of weeks," he added. "Lucky it's only a flesh wound. You'll probably lose a lot of gore; but really, y' know, you're far too full of blood as it is." And he expertly bound up Heath's right arm, using a handkerchief for a bandage.

    The Sergeant struggled to his feet.

    "You're treating me like a damn baby." He stepped to the mantel and leaned against it. "There's nothing the matter with me. Where do we go from here?" His face was unusually white, and I could see that the mantel behind him was a most welcome prop.

    "Glad I had that mirror in front of me," murmured Vance. "Very useful devices, mirrors."

    He had barely finished speaking when we heard a repeated ringing near us.

    "By Jove, a telephone!" commented Vance. "Now we'll have to find the instrument."

    Heath straightened up.

    "The thing's right here on the mantel," he said. "I've been standing in front of it."

    Vance made a sudden move forward, but Heath stood in the way.

    "You'd better let me answer it, Mr. Vance. You're too refined." He picked up the receiver with his left hand.

    "What d' you want?" he asked, in a gruff, officious tone. There was a short pause. "Oh, yeah? O.-K., go ahead." A longer pause followed, as Heath listened. "Don't know nothing about it," he shot back, in a heavy, resentful voice. Then he added: "You got the wrong number." And he slammed down the receiver.

    "Who was it, do you know, Sergeant?" Vance spoke quietly as he lighted a cigarette.

    Heath turned slowly and looked at Vance. His eyes were narrowed, and there was an expression of awe on his face as he answered.

    "Sure I know," he said significantly. He shook his head as if he did not trust himself to speak. "There ain't no mistaking that voice."

    "Well, who was it, Sergeant?" asked Vance mildly, without looking up from his cigarette.

    The Sergeant seemed stronger: he stood away from the mantelpiece, his legs wide apart and firmly planted. Rivulets of blood were running down over his right hand which hung limply at his side.

    "It was—" he began, and then he was suddenly aware of my presence in the room. "Mother o' God!" he breathed. "I don't have to tell you, Mr. Vance. You knew this morning."