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 stopped. The posters are out, offering a reward of Ten Thousand Dollars for the capture of the murderer, or any information that leads to that result.”

“Not for the finding of Locke?” asked Barham.

“No; I received your message in time to omit that part of it.”

“Yes, I changed that,” Barham said, in answer to Nelson’s unspoken question. “You see, it can do no good to get Locke, if he isn’t the murderer. I mean, it isn’t worth ten thousand dollars to get him just to talk to.”

“No,” Nelson agreed. But he didn’t quite understand. Surely, Barham had been most anxious to capture Locke.

“Now, go ahead with your hunt,” Barham said, “and, look here, Nick, I rather cotton to that plan of yours to go and search the Locke apartment—and I believe I’ll go with you.”

“Good!” Nelson cried. “I’m sure it is a good idea, and I do believe we might find something of interest if not evidence. Shall we go now?”

“Would it be better to go at night?”

“No,” Hutchins said, “let’s go now—let’s all go. I’d like to see how you people work.”

“I don’t dignify it by such a high sounding term as that,” Nelson smiled. “More like playing at detecting. But there’s always a chance.”

So the three, in Barham’s car, went down to the studio of the missing Thomas Locke.

The place looked much as it did the day Nelson attended the inquest there, but not much as Barham had seen it the night of the Bal Masque. Then it had been gay with lanterns and flowers. Now it was in its plain, everyday furnishings, and, though properly in order, and tidily cleared up by the Chinaman, yet he had not been allowed