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door and looked up and down the hall.
    The only thing that had seemed to hold his attention to any extent was the body itself. He had stood before it for several minutes, studying its position, and even bent over the outstretched arm on the table as if to see just how the dead man’s hand was holding the book. The crossed position of the legs, however, had attracted him most, and he had stood studying them for a considerable time. Finally, he had returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket, and joined Dinwiddie and me near the door, where he had stood, watching Heath and the other detectives with lazy indifference, until the departure of Captain Hagedorn.
    The four of us had no more than taken seats when the patrolman stationed in the vestibule appeared at the door.
    â€œThere’s a man from the local precinct station here, sir,” he announced, “who wants to see the officer in charge, Shall I send him in?”
    Heath nodded curtly, and a moment later a large red-faced Irishman, in civilian clothes, stood before us. He saluted Heath, but on recognizing the District Attorney, made Markham the recipient of his report.
    â€œI’m Officer McLaughlin, sir—West Forty-seventh Street station,” he informed us, “and I was on duty on this beat last night. Around midnight, I guess it was, there was a big grey Cadillac standing in front of this house—I noticed it particular, because it had a lot of fishing-tackle sticking out the back, and all its lights were on. When I heard of the crime this morning I reported the car to the station-sergeant, and he sent me around to tell you about it.”
    â€œExcellent,” Markham commented; and then, with a nod, referred the matter to Heath.
    â€œMay be something in it,” the latter admitted dubiously, “How long would you say the car was here, officer?”
    â€œA good half-hour, anyway. It was here before twelve, and when I come back at twelve-thirty or thereabouts it was still here. But the next time I come by, it was gone.”
    â€œYou saw nothing else? Nobody in the car, or anyone hanging around who might have been the owner?”
    â€œNo, sir, I did not.”
    Several other questions of a similar nature were asked him; but nothing more could be learned, and he was dismissed.
    â€œAnyway,” remarked Heath, “the car story will be good stuff to hand the reporters.”
    Vance had sat through the questioning of McLaughlin with drowsy inattention—I doubt if he even heard more than the first few words of the officer’s report—and now, with a stifled yawn, he rose and, sauntering to the centre-table, picked up one of the cigarette butts that had been found in the fireplace. After rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and scrutinising the tip, he ripped the paper open with his thumb-nail, and held the exposed tobacco to his nose.
    Heath, who had been watching him gloweringly, leaned suddenly forward in his chair.
    â€œWhat are you doing there?” he demanded, in a tone of surly truculence.
    Vance lifted his eyes in decorous astonishment.
    â€œMerely smelling of the tobacco,” he replied, with condescending unconcern. “It’s rather mild, y’know, but delicately blended.”
    The muscles in Heath’s cheeks worked angrily. “Well, you’d better put it down, sir,” he advised. Then he looked Vance up and down. “Tobacco expert?” he asked, with ill-disguised sarcasm.
    â€œOh, dear no.” Vance’s voice was dulcet. “My speciality is scarab-cartouches of the Ptolemaic dynasties.”
    Markham interposed diplomatically.
    â€œYou really shouldn’t touch anything around here, Vance, at this stage of the game. You never know what’ll turn out to be important. Those cigarette stubs may quite possibly be significant evidence.”
    â€œEvidence?” repeated Vance sweetly. “My word! You don’t say, really! Most