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(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 paper-weight 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, I can’t recall a single statement of that nature.” His words were measured and urbane. “I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir——”

“When did you see her last, may I ask?” Markham interrupted impatiently.

The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.

“When did I see her last? . . . Let me see.” He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. “A fortnight ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can’t recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Markham. He paused, and regarded the doctor with a look of disarming affability. “And was this last visit a paternal or merely a professional one?”

“Professional, of course.” Doctor Lindquist’s eyes were impassive and only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the unedited reflection of his thoughts.

“Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?”

“I believe I called on her at her home.”

“You called on her a great deal, doctor—so I am informed—and at rather unconventional hours. . . . Is this entirely in accord with your practice of seeing patients only by appointment?”

Markham’s tone was pleasant, but from the nature of his question I knew that he was decidedly irritated by the man’s bland hypocrisy, and felt that he was deliberately withholding relevant information.

Before Doctor Lindquist could reply, however, the butler appeared at the door, and silently indicated an extension telephone on a taboret beside the desk. With an unctuously murmured apology, the doctor turned and lifted the receiver.

Vance took advantage of this opportunity to scribble something on a piece of paper and pass it surreptitiously to Markham.

His call completed, Doctor Lindquist drew himself up haughtily, and faced Markham with chilling scorn.

“Is it the function of the District Attorney,” he asked distantly, “to harass respectable physicians with insulting questions? I did not know that it was illegal—or even original, for that matter—for a doctor to visit his patients.”

“I am not discussing now”—Markham emphasized the adverb—“your infractions of the law; but since you suggest a possibility which, I assure you, was not in my mind, would you be good enough to tell me—merely as a matter of form—where you were last night between eleven and twelve?”

The question produced a startling effect. Doctor Lindquist became suddenly like a tautly drawn rope, and, rising slowly and stiffly, he glared, with cold intense venom, at the District Attorney. His velvety mask had fallen off; and I detected another emotion beneath his repressed anger: his expression cloaked a fear, and his wrath but partly veiled a passionate uncertainty.

“My whereabouts last night is no concern of yours.” He spoke with great effort, his breath coming and going noisily.

Markham waited, apparently unmoved, his eyes riveted on the trembling man before him. This calm scrutiny completely broken down the other’s self-control.

“What do you mean by forcing yourself in here with your contemptible insinuations?” he shouted. His face, now livid and mottled, was hideously contorted; his hands made spasmodic movements; and his whole body shook as with a tremor. “Get out of here—you and your two myrmidons! Get out, before I have you thrown out!”

Markham, himself enraged now, was about to reply, when Vance took him by the arm.

“The doctor is gently hinting that we go,” he said. And with amazing swiftness he spun Markham round, and led him firmly out of the room.

When we were again in the taxicab on our way back to the club, Vance sniggered gaily.

“A sweet specimen, that! Paranoia. Or, more likely, manic-depressive insanity—the folie circulaire type: recurring periods of maniacal excitement alternating with periods of the clearest sanity, don’t y’ know. Anyway, the doctor’s disorder belongs in the category of psychoses—associated with the maturation or waning of the sexual instinct. He’s just the right age, too. Neurotic degenerate—that’s what this oily Hippocrates is. In another minute he would have attacked you. . . . My word! It’s a good thing I came to the rescue. Such chaps are about as safe as rattlesnakes.”

He shook his head in a mock discouragement.

“Really, y’ know, Markham, old thing,” he added, “you should study the cranial indications of your fellow man more carefully—vultus est index animi. Did you, by any chance, note the gentleman’s wide rectangular forehead, his irregular eyebrows, and pale luminous eyes, and his outstanding ears with their thin upper rims, their pointed tragi and split lobes? . . . A clever devil, this Ambroise—but a moral imbecile. Beware of those pseudo-pyriform faces, Markham; leave their Apollonian Greek suggestiveness to misunderstood women.”

“I wonder what he really knows?” grumbled Markham irritably.

“Oh, he knows something—rest assured of that! And if only we knew it, too, we’d be considerably further along in the investigation. Furthermore, the information he is hiding is somewhat unpleasantly connected with himself. His euphoria is a bit shaken. He frightfully overdid the grand manner; his valedict’ry fulmination was the true expression of his feeling toward us.”

“Yes,” agreed Markham. “That question about last night acted like a petard. What prompted you to suggest my asking it?”

“A number of things—his gratuitous and obviously mendacious statement that he had just read of the murder; his wholly insincere homily on the sacredness of professional confidences; the cautious and Pecksniffian confession of his fatherly regard for the girl; his elaborate struggle to remember when he had last seen her—this particularly, I think, made me suspicious; and then, the psychopathic indicants of his physiognomy.”

“Well,” admitted Markham, “the question had its effect. . . . I feel that I shall see this fashionable M.D. again.”

“You will,” iterated Vance. “We took him unawares. But when he has had time to ponder the matter and concoct an appealin’ tale, he’ll become downright garrulous. . . . Anyhow, the evening is over, and you can meditate on buttercups till the morrow.”

But the evening was not quite over as far as the Odell case was concerned. We had been back in the lounge-room of the club but a short time when a man walked by the corner in which we sat, and bowed with formal courtesy to Markham. Markham, to my surprise, rose and greeted him, at the same time indicating a chair.

“There’s something further I wanted to ask you, Mr. Spotswoode,” he said, “if you can spare a moment.”

At the mention of the name I regarded the man closely, for, I confess, I was not a little curious about the anonymous escort who had taken the girl to dinner and the theatre the night before. Spotswoode was a typical New England aristocrat, inflexible, slow in his movements, reserved, and quietly but modishly dressed. His hair and moustache were slightly gray—which, no doubt, enhanced the pinkness of his complexion. He was just under six feet tall, and well proportioned, but a trifle angular.

Markham introduced him to Vance and me, and briefly explained that we were working with him on the case, and that he had thought it best to take us fully into his confidence.

Spotswoode gave him a dubious look, but immediately bowed his acceptance of the decision.

“I’m in your hands, Mr. Markham,” he replied, in a well-bred but somewhat high-pitched voice, “and I concur, of course, with whatever you think advisable.” He turned to Vance with an apologetic smile. “I’m in a rather unpleasant position, and naturally feel a little sensitive about it.”

“I’m something of an antinomian,” Vance pleasantly informed him. “At any rate, I’m not a moralist; so my attitude in the matter is quite academic.”

Spotswoode laughed softly.

“I wish my family held a similar point of view; but I’m afraid they would not be so tolerant of my foibles.”

“It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Spotswoode,” interposed Markham, “that there is a bare possibility I may have to call you as a witness.”

The man looked up quickly, his face clouding over, but he made no comment.

“The fact is,” continued Markham, “we are about to make an arrest, and your testimony may be needed to establish the time of Miss Odell’s return to her apartment, and also to substantiate the fact that there was presumably some one in her rooms after you had left. Her screams and calls for help, which you heard, may prove vital evidence in obtaining a conviction.”

Spotswoode seemed rather appalled at the thought of his relations with the girl becoming public, and for several minutes he sat with averted eyes.

“I see your point,” he acknowledged at length. “But it would be a terrible thing for me if the fact of my delinquencies became known.”

“That contingency may be entirely avoided,” Markham encouraged him. “I promise you that you will not be called upon unless it is absolutely necessary. . . . And now, what I especially wanted to ask you is this: do you happen to know a Doctor Lindquist who, I understand, was Miss Odell’s personal physician?”

Spotswoode was frankly puzzled. “I never heard the name,” he answered. “In fact, Miss Odell never mentioned any doctor to me.”

“And did you ever hear her mention the name of Skeel . . . or refer to any one as Tony?”

“Never.” His answer was emphatic.

Markham lapsed into a disappointed silence. Spotswoode, too, was silent: he sat as if in a revery.

“You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, after several minutes, “I ought to be ashamed to admit it, but the truth is I cared a good deal for the girl. I suppose you’ve kept her apartment intact. . . .” He hesitated, and a look almost of appeal came into his eyes. “I’d like to see it again if I could.”

Markham regarded him sympathetically, but finally shook his head.

“It wouldn’t do. You’d be sure to be recognized by the operator—or there might be a reporter about—and then I’d be unable to keep you out of the case.”

The man appeared disappointed, but did not protest; and for several minutes no one spoke. Then Vance raised himself slightly in his chair.

“I say, Mr. Spotswoode, do you happen to remember anything unusual occurring last night during the half-hour you remained with Miss Odell after the theatre?”

“Unusual?” The man’s manner was eloquent of his astonishment. “To the contrary. We chatted a while, and then, as she seemed tired, I said good night and came away, making a luncheon appointment with her for to-day.”

“And yet, it now seems fairly certain that some other man was hiding in the apartment when you were there.”

“There’s little doubt on that point,” agreed Spotswoode, with the suggestion of a shudder. “And her screams would seem to indicate that he came forth from hiding a few minutes after I went.”

“And you had no suspicion of the fact when you heard her call for help?”

“I did at first—naturally. But when she assured me that nothing was the matter, and told me to go home, I attributed her screams to a nightmare. I knew she had been tired, and I had left her in the wicker chair near the door, from where her screams seemed to come; so I naturally concluded she had dozed off and called out in her sleep. . . . If only I hadn’t taken so much for granted!”

“It’s a harrowin’ situation.” Vance was silent for a while; then he asked: “Did you, by any chance, notice the door of the living-room closet? Was it open or closed?”

Spotswoode frowned, as if attempting to visualize the picture; but the result was a failure.

“I suppose it was closed. I probably would have noticed it if it had been open.”

“Then you couldn’t say if the key was in the lock or not?”

“Good Lord, no! I don’t even know if it ever had a key.”

The case was discussed for another half-hour; then Spotswoode excused himself and left us.

“Funny thing,” ruminated Markham, “how a man of his upbringing could be so attracted by the empty-headed, butterfly type.”

“I’d say it was quite natural,” returned Vance. . . . “You’re such an incorrigible moralist, Markham.”