We descended the broad stone steps to the street and turned east. At Seventh Avenue Vance suddenly hailed a taxicab and gave the driver the District Attorney's home address.

    "Markham will probably have returned from his round of political chores by this time," he said as we headed downtown. "He'll doubtless twit me unmercifully for my evening's empty adventure; but somehow I felt a strange uneasiness tonight in the spacious confines of the Domdaniel, after listening to the Sergeant's uncompliment'ry remarks about the place last night: it was quite the same as of yore. Yet why should the toxiphorous Borgias haunt my mind as I toyed with my fricandeau and sipped my Chateau Haut-Brion? Mayhap, as the years roll by, the entanglin' tentacles of suspicion are closin' about my once trustin' nature. Eheu, eheu!..."

    The cab came to a jerky stop before a small apartment house, and we went at once to the District Attorney's apartment. Markham, in his smoking jacket and slippers, greeted us with amused surprise.

    "Not another wing-sandalled Hermes, I hope."

    "Nary a caduceus up my sleeve. Are you being beset by heralds?"

    "More or less," returned Markham, with a wry grimace. "The Sergeant here has just brought me a message."

    I had not been aware of Heath's presence, but now I saw him standing in the shadow near a window. He came forward with a friendly nod.

    "My word, Sergeant," said Vance. "Wherefore?"

    "I came on account of that message Mr. Markham was speakin' about, Mr. Vance. A message from Pittsburgh."

    "Were the tidings bad?"

    "Well, they weren't what you might call good," Heath complained. "Plenty bad, I'd say."

    "Indeed?"

    "I guess I wasn't so far wrong in the way I figured things last night... Captain Chesholm in Pittsburgh just sent me a report that one of his motorcycle boys had spotted a car running without lights on a back road, and that when the car slowed up for a sharp turn, a guy in the back seat took a couple of shots at him. The car got away, headin' east to the main highway."

    "But, Sergeant, why should this bit of desult'ry gun-play in Pennsylvania disturb your even tenour?"

    "I'll tell you why." Heath removed the cigar from his mouth. "The officer thought he recognized Benny the Buzzard!"

    Vance was unimpressed.

    "In the circumst'nces, it could hardly have been a very definite identification."

    "That's exactly what I told the Sergeant." Markham nodded approvingly. "During the next few weeks we'll be getting reports that Pellinzi has been seen in every state in the Union."

    "Maybe," persisted Heath. "But the way this car was travellin' fits in with my idea perfect. The Buzzard coulda hit New York this morning if he'd come straight from Nomenica. But by circling down to Pennsylvania and coming east from there, he probably figured he would avoid a lot of trouble."

    "Personally," Markham said, "I'm convinced the fellow will stay clear of New York." His tone was tantamount to a criticism of the Sergeant's anxiety.

    Heath felt the rebuff.

    "I hope I haven't bothered you by coming here tonight, Chief. I knew you had a couple of appointments this evening, and I thought you'd still be up."

    Markham relented.

    "Your coming here was quite all right," he said reassuringly. "I'm always happy to see you, Sergeant. Sit down and help yourself from the decanter...Perhaps Mr. Vance himself is seeking an audience for his information regarding the arch of Mirche's eyebrows and other horrendous details of his sojourn to the Domdaniel...How about it, Vance? Have you a bedtime story of goblins with which to regale us?"

    Heath had relaxed in a chair and poured himself a drink. Vance, too, reached for his favourite brandy.

    "I'm deuced sorry, Markham old dear," he drawled. "I have no fantasies to unfold—not even one about a mysterious fleeing auto. But I shall try to match the Sergeant's inspiration with a yarn of a wood-nymph and a perfume-sniffer; of a xanthous Lorelei who sings from a podium instead of from a rocky crag; of a sleek owner of a caravanserai, and an empty office screened with mysterious grilles; of an ivy-covered postern, and an owl without feathers...Could you bear to hearken to the chantin' of my runes?"

    "My resistance is low."

    Vance stretched his legs before him.

    "Well, imprimis," he began, "a most charming and astonishing young woman joined us at our table this evening for a few minutes—a child whose spinning brain, much like a pinwheel, radiated the most colourful sparks, and whose spirit was as guileless as an infant's."

    "The wood-nymph of whom you prated in your preamble?"

    "Yes—none other. I saw her first this afternoon in a shady nook in Riverdale. And she was at the Domdaniel tonight, accompanied by a johnnie named Puttie, with whom she was baiting the true swain of her heart—a Mr. Burns. He, too, was present tonight, but at a distance, and alone—and glowering unhappily."

    "Your encounter with her in the afternoon suggests more interesting possibilities," Markham commented listlessly.

    "Perhaps you're right, old dear. The fact is, the lady was alone when I intruded into her woodland bower. But she accepted my encroachment quite simply. She even offered to read my palm.—It seems that some haruspex named Delpha taught her the lines of the hand—"

    "Delpha?" Heath cut in sharply. "You mean the fortune-teller who does business under that phony name?"

    "It could be," said Vance. "This Delpha, I gathered, deals in palmistry, astrology, and numerology, and other allied didos. Do you know the seeress, Sergeant?"

    "I'll say I do. I know her husband Tony, too. They're connected in some queer way with a lot of wrong guys in the underworld. They're tipsters, jewelry touts—what you might call spies for stick-ups. But you can't get the goods on 'em. Their name's Tofana; and they run a flashy joint for suckers...Delpha!" he snorted. "Plain Rosie she is to the neighbours. She may get by for a while longer; but I'll nail her some day."

    "You positively astound me, Sergeant. I simply can't imagine my sylvan fairy—who, by the by, is a working girl in the In-O-Scent perfume factory on week-days—having aught to do with the darksome witch of your description."

    "I can," said Heath. "That's old Rosa Tofana's neatest stall—surrounding herself with young innocents. And while she's putting up the sweet, stainless front, old Tony is probably cooking up some deviltry, or picking pockets, or moll-buzzing, or dope-peddling in another part of town. Slick guy, Tony—can do 'most anything."

    "Ah, well," murmured Vance, "we may be speaking of two quite different sibyls, don't y' know. 'Delpha' may be a popular nomenclature with the mystic sorority. Probably a bit of phonetic suggestion for the Delphic oracle..."

    "Courage, Vance," Markham put in pleasantly. "Don't let the Sergeant side-track you from your fairy-tale."

    "And the most amazin' detail," Vance went on, "was the scent of citron that hung about the pixie. The perfume was mixed especially for her, and was nameless. Most mysterious—eh, what? It had been concocted by the gentleman named Burns—some sort of scent-wizard employed in the same factory she is—who was so annoyed at her apparent deflection to a rival suitor."

    Markham smiled wryly.

    "I hardly see where the mystery of the situation comes in."

    "Nor I," confessed Vance. "But let your massive brain dwell upon the fact that the young lady should have chosen this very night to visit Mirche's hospitium."

    "Probably dogged your footsteps from Riverdale till you reached the Domdaniel."

    "That, alas! is not the answer. She was already there when I arrived."

    "Then perhaps the young lady was hungry."

    "I had thought of that." Vance's eyes were twinkling gaily. "Perhaps you've solved the mystery!...But," he went on, "that doesn't account for the further fact that Mirche himself was at the Domdaniel."

    "And where else would you have him, pray?...But perhaps you're going to tell me he's the long-lost father of your heroine?"

    "No," sighed Vance. "Mirche, I fear, is sublimely unaware of the young lady's very existence. Most annoyin'. And I was trying so hard to build up a diverting yam for your benefit."

    "I appreciate the effort." Markham's cigar needed relighting, and he gave his attention to it. "But tell me what you thought of Mirche. I recall that your main object in going to the Domdaniel tonight was to make a closer study of the man."

    "Ah, yes." Vance shifted deeper into his chair. "You're always so practical, Markham...Well, I don't like Mirche. A smooth gentleman; but not an admirable one. However, he exerted himself quite earnestly to enchant me. I wonder why...Perhaps he was plotting some shady deed—though he impressed me as being the type who would need another to do his plotting for him. No, not a leader of men, but an unquestioning and able follower. A dark and wicked fellow...Well, there you have the villain of the piece."

    "And what shall I do with him?...Your tale is fizzling by the second."

    "I fear you're right," admitted Vance. "Let me see...I lovingly inspected Mirche's office; but it was disgustingly void of any wrong. Merely a fair-sized room without a single occupant. And then I gazed fondly at the old door and windows beyond the porte-cochre—inside the driveway, y' know. But all my intensive scrutiny yielded nothing of a helpful nature. The ivy round them, however, was most pleasing. English ivy."

    "Now you're down to botany," said Markham. "I must say, I prefer the Sergeant's account of the Pittsburgh shooting...But didn't you speak of a Lorelei?"

    "Ah, yes. And deuced blond she was—as becomes a Rhenish siren. Her name, however, has a Gallic ring: Del Marr. A striking Lorelei—more intelligent, I should judge, than Mirche. But there were serious words between her and our Boniface. During a restful intermission of the orchestra they sat together, and I am sure the conversation was not confined to arpeggios and treble clefs and obbligatos. Rather intimate atmosphere. Liberty, egalite, fraternite—comme ca. No mere entertainer conversing with her impresario.

    "I figured it that way myself, years ago," Heath put in. "Furthermore, she's got a swell car and a chauffeur, too. Her singing don't pay for all that. And I don't like the looks of that chauffeur either; he's a tough mug—looks like he oughta be a bouncer in a saloon."

    "At least, Vance," said Markham hopefully, "you have found one potential connection between the almost totally disorganized and unrelated components of your drama. Maybe you can develop your narrative structure with that; as a basis."

    Vance shook his head despondently. "No, I fear I am not equal to the task."

    "What of the 'owl without feathers' you mentioned a while ago?"

    "Ah!" Vance sipped his cognac. "I was referring to the opaque and mysterious Mr. Owen of obnoxious memory and ill repute."

    "I see. 'Owl' Owen, eh? I had a vague idea he was basking in the California sunshine. It was rumored some time ago that he was dying—probably of his sins."

    "Oh, he was decidedly at the Domdaniel, sitting far across the room from me with two other men."

    "Those two guys," Heath supplied, "were probably his bodyguard. He don't move without 'em."

    "I fear there is no material for you in that quarter, Vance," said Markham. "The F.B.I, were once worried about him; but after an investigation they gave the man a clean bill of health."

    "I admit defeat." Vance smiled sadly. "I even tried to lure Mirche into an admission of knowing Owen. But he denied the remotest acquaintance with the man..."

    After another hour of random talk we were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Markham frowned with annoyance as he answered it; then, putting the receiver down, he turned to Heath.

    "For you, Sergeant. It's Hennessey."

    Heath, too, was annoyed.

    "Sorry, Chief. I didn't leave this number with anyone when I came here."

    As he greeted Hennessey over the wire his voice was bellicose. He listened for several minutes, his expression changing rapidly from belligerency to deep puzzlement. Suddenly he bawled into the transmitter:

    "Hang on a minute!" Holding the receiver at his side, he turned to us.

    "It sounds crazy to me, Chief, but Hennessey's calling from the Domdaniel, and I gotta see him right away..."

    "Splendid!" ejaculated Vance. "Why not have Hennessey come here? I'm, sure Mr. Markham wouldn't object."

    Markham shot Vance a look of questioning amazement.

    "Very well, Sergeant," he grumbled.

    Heath quickly put the receiver to his ear again.

    "Hey, listen, Hennessey," he barked. "Hop over here to the D.A's."

    "What might all the excitement be, Sergeant?' asked Vance. "Has Mirche absconded with his own till and eloped with Miss Del Marr?"

    "It's damn queer," muttered Heath, ignoring the question. "The boys found a dead guy over at the cafe."

    "I do hope he was found in Mirche's office," Vance said lightly.

    "You win." Heath stared at the floor.

    "And who might the corpse be?"

    "That's what makes it cuckoo. A kitchen helper of some kind that worked there."

    "Will that fact help you revive your fizzled tale?" Markham asked Vance.

    "My word, no! It blasts my limpin' yarn completely." Vance turned to Heath again. "Did you get the name of the defunct chappie, Sergeant?"

    "I didn't pay much attention to it when Hennessey said the guy was just a kitchen mechanic. But it sounded something like Philip Allen."

    Vance's eyelids flickered slightly.

    "Philip Allen, eh? Most interestin'!"