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and when she introduced us, he wasn’t even civil.”

      “It will at least bear looking into,” replied Markham unenthusiastically. “You’ve no one else in mind who might know something helpful?”

      Cleaver shook his head.

      “No—no one.”

      “And she never mentioned anything to you that indicated she was in fear of anyone, or anticipated trouble?”

      “Not a word. Fact is, I was bowled over by the news. I never read any paper but the morning Herald—except, of course, The Daily Racing Form at night. And as there was no account of the murder in this morning’s paper, I didn’t hear about it until just before dinner. The boys in the billiard room were talking about it, and I went out and looked at an afternoon paper. If it hadn’t been for that, I might not have known of it till tomorrow morning.”

      Markham discussed the case with him until half past eight but could elicit no further suggestions. Finally Cleaver rose to go.

      “Sorry I couldn’t give you more help,” he said. His rubicund face was beaming now, and he shook hands with Markham in the friendliest fashion.

      “You wangled that viscid old sport rather cleverly, don’t y’ know,” remarked Vance, when Cleaver had gone. “But there’s something deuced queer about him. The transition from his gambler’s glassy stare to his garrulous confidences was too sudden—suspiciously sudden, in fact. I may be evil-minded, but he didn’t impress me as a luminous pillar of truth. Maybe it’s because I don’t like those cold, boiled eyes of his—somehow they didn’t harmonize with his gushing imitation of openhearted frankness.”

      “We can allow him something for his embarrassing position,” suggested Markham charitably. “It isn’t exactly pleasant to admit having been taken in and blackmailed by a charmer.”

      “Still, if he got his letters back in June, why did he continue paying court to the lady? Heath reported he was active in that sector right up to the end.”

      “He may be the complete amorist,” smiled Markham.

      “Some like Abra, what?—

      ‘Abra was ready ere I call’d her name;

      And, though I call’d another, Abra came.’

      Maybe—yes. He might qualify as a modern Cayley Drummle.”

      “At any rate, he gave us, in Doctor Lindquist, a possible source of information.”

      “Quite so,” agreed Vance. “And that’s about the only point of his whole passionate unfoldment that I particularly put any stock in, because it was the only point he indicated with any decent reticence.… My advice is that you interview this Aesculapius of the fair sex without further delay.”

      “I’m dog-tired,” objected Markham. “Let it wait till tomorrow.”

      Vance glanced at the great clock over the stone mantel.

      “It’s latish, I’ll admit, but why not, as Pittacus advised, seize time by the forelock?

      ‘Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find:

      Occasion once past by, is a bald behind.’

      But the elder Cato anticipated Cowley. In his Disticha de Moribus he wrote: Fronte capillata—”

      “Come!” pleaded Markham, rising. “Anything to dam this flow of erudition.”

      CHAPTER 11

      SEEKING INFORMATION

      (Tuesday September 11; 9 P.M.)

      Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell of a stately old brownstone house in East 44th Street.

      A resplendently caparisoned butler opened the door, and Markham presented his card.

      “Take this to the doctor at once and say that it’s urgent.”

      “The doctor is just finishing dinner,” the stately seneschal informed him, and conducted us into a richly furnished reception room, with deep, comfortable chairs, silken draperies, and subdued lights.

      “A typical gynecologist’s seraglio,” observed Vance, looking around. “I’m sure the pasha himself is a majestic and elegant personage.”

      The prediction proved true. Doctor Lindquist entered the room a moment later inspecting the district attorney’s card as if it had been a cuneiform inscription whose import he could not quite decipher. He was a tall man in his late forties, with bushy hair and eyebrows, and a complexion abnormally pale. His face was long, and, despite the asymmetry of his features, he might easily have been called handsome. He was in dinner clothes, and he carried himself with the self-conscious precision of a man unduly impressed with his own importance. He seated himself at a kidney-shaped desk of carved mahogany and lifted his eyes with polite inquiry to Markham.

      “To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?” he asked in a studiously melodious voice, lingering over each word caressingly. “You are most fortunate to have found me in,” he added, before Markham could speak. “I confer with patients only by appointment.” One felt that he experienced a certain humiliation at having received us without elaborate ceremonial preliminaries.

      Markham, whose nature was opposed to all circumlocution and pretense, came direct to the point.

      “This isn’t a professional consultation, Doctor; but it happens that I want to speak to you about one of your former patients—a Miss Margaret Odell.”

      Doctor Lindquist regarded the gold paperweight before him with vacantly reminiscent eyes.

      “Ah, yes. Miss Odell. I was just reading of her violent end. A most unfortunate and tragic affair.… In just what way can I be of service to you?—You understand, of course, that the relationship between a physician and his patient is one of sacred confidence—”

      “I understand that thoroughly,” Markham assured him abruptly. “On the other hand, it is the sacred duty of every citizen to assist the authorities in bringing a murderer to justice. And if there is anything you can tell me which will help toward that end, I shall certainly expect you to tell me.”

      The doctor raised his hand slightly in polite protestation. “I shall, of course, do all I can to assist you, if you will but indicate your desires.”

      “There’s no need to beat about the bush, Doctor,” said Markham. “I know that Miss Odell was a patient of yours for a long time; and I realize that it is highly possible, not to say probable, that she told you certain personal things which may have direct bearing on her death.”

      “But, my dear Mr.—,” Doctor Lindquist glanced ostentatiously at the card, “ah—Markham, my relations with Miss Odell were of a purely professional character.”

      “I had understood, however,” ventured Markham, “that, while what you say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality, let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by saying that your professional attitude transcended a merely scientific interest in her case.”

      I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a smile at Markham’s verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. Assuming an air of beguiling pensiveness, he said: “I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young woman with a certain—shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part.”

      The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amusement.

      “And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs that were causing her anxiety?” persisted Markham.

      Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.

      “No,

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