That was all I could get out of the neighbors. I went downtown, to the Montgomery Street offices of Spear, Hoover & Camp, and asked for Eric Collinson.
He was young, blond, tall, broad, sunburned and immaculate, with the good-looking dumb face of one who would know everything about polo, of shooting, or flying, or stocks and bonds, or whatever interested him, and nothing about anything else. We sat on a broad leather seat in the customers' room, now, after market hours, empty except for a weedy boy juggling numbers on board. I told Collinson about the burglary and asked him about the man he and Miss Leggett had seen Saturday night.
"Ordinary looking chap—short, chunky. You think he took them?"
"Was he coming from the Leggetts' house?"
"From the lawn, yes. Jumpy looking chap. I thought he'd been snooping around. That's why I suggested going after him. Gaby wouldn't have it. Probably a friend of papa's. He goes in for odd eggs."
"Wasn't that late for a visitor to be leaving? What time was it?"
"Midnight, I dare say," but he didn't look at me while he said it.
"Midnight?" I asked sharply.
"That's the word. Time when the graves give up their dead and ghosts walk."
"Miss Leggett said it was after three o'clock."
"You see how it is?" he asked, blandly triumphant, as if he had just demonstrated something we had been arguing about. "Half blind and won't wear glasses for fear of losing beauty. Always doing things like that. Plays abominable bridge—takes deuces for aces. Probably a quarter after twelve. Looks at the clock and gets the hands mixed."
I said, "That's too bad. Thanks." and went around the corner to see Archie Little, junior partner of the Brenderman-Little Company, investment bankers.
I asked Archie what he knew about Collinson. He said there was nothing to know about him, except that his old man was the lumber Collinson and Eric was Princeton and stocks and bonds, a nice boy.
"Maybe he is," I agreed, "but he just lied to me."
"Ts, ts, ts!" Archie shook his head, grinning, "Isn't that like a sleuth? You must have had the wrong fellow. Somebody's impersonating him. The Chevalier Bayard doesn't lie, and besides, lying requires imagination. You've— Wait! Was there a woman involved in your question?
I nodded.
"You're correct, then," Archie assured me. "I apologize, The Chevalier Bayard always lies when there's a woman involved, even if it's unnecessary and puts her to a lot of trouble. It's one of the conventions of Bayardism—something to do with guarding her honor and the like. Is she young? Do I know her? I make a point of knowing all the women people lie about"
I thanked him instead of answering his questions and went up to the Geary Street jewelry store of Halstead & Beauchamp.
Halstead was a suave, pale, bald, fat man with vague eyes and a too-tight collar. I told him what I was doing and asked him if he knew Leggett very well.
"I know him as an occasional customer, and by reputation as a scientist. Why do you ask?"
"The burglary looks phoney."
"Preposterous! That is, it's preposterous if you think a man of his caliber would have anything to do with it. A servant, of course, but not Leggatt. He is a scientist, and he is, unless our credit department has been misinformed, which I think is unlikely, if not wealthy, at least of sufficient means to prevent suspicion falling on him. I happen to know that he has at present with the Seaman's national Bank a bal-
