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 never return. To my mind, it is self-evident that though he is near by—at least, in the city—he is clever enough to remain hidden.”

“Not necessarily in the city,” said Nelson. “He may have telephoned on a long distance.”

“Right,” Barham agreed. “At any rate, he is quite capable, as it looks to me, of taking care of himself, and keeping in hiding as long as he chooses. I think, if you please, Mr. Hutchins, I will take a look in the den. I hesitated, as it is a place of painful associations, but there is a chance I might see something of informative value.”

But when Andrew Barham stood in the little room, at the very spot where his wife was, doubtless, felled to her death, he could see no shred, no bit of evidence.

The tears were in his eyes as he turned away.

One of the heavy bronze book-ends still stood on the table, the other had been taken away by the police as the weapon of murder.

And then, still in a spirit of investigation, the three went into Locke’s bedroom and bathroom. Nothing met their eyes that offered any ground for surmise or conclusion. Slowly they retraced their way downstairs.

“Come on, Drew,” said Nelson, as he followed the detective down.

“In a minute,” Barham replied, pausing for another glance into the den.

It was by no means a morbid curiosity, but there were many conflicting feelings in Andrew Barham’s mind just then.

He wondered.

On the way home in the car—Hutchins having remained, behind—Barham said, “I can’t see, Nick, that the police are making any headway whatever. I can’t see but Locke