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few days intervening between the death of Madeleine Barham and her funeral were as a nightmare of horrors to her husband. Yet, there was so much to be done that only he could do, and so many things to be attended to that only he could attend to, that, after all, the time passed quickly.

Nelson brought him the report of what had been done at the police inquiry, and Barham listened gravely to his recital.

“I’ve so many things on my mind, Nick,” he said, “that I can’t remember all you’re telling me. But that doesn’t matter, for I sent a stenographer down there, and I shall have the full account whenever I get ready to read it over. But you give me the salient points. I suppose they’ve no word from or of Mr. Locke?”

“No, they haven’t, and that of course is not surprising. Of course, Drew, the artist is either responsible for the deed—or he knows who is. That much goes without saying.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Barham returned. But his attention was distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere.

“Don’t think I’m not listening,” he said quickly, as he saw Nelson’s recognition of his wandering mind, “but, oh, Nick, if you knew all I have to contend with. I wouldn’t mention it to any one but you, but Mother Selden is driving me crazy.”

“She can do it! You’ll have to make some other arrangement for her, Drew.”