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 told, Charley wilted. His waving arms fell limp, and his excited face returned to its normal stolidity.

Hutchins held himself in, and strove to answer casually.

“Oh, yes—that’s easy. Miss Cutler has Mr. Locke’s jewel—a lucky piece, you say? And Mr. Locke wants it. Of course he does. He’d have no luck without it. Well, let’s go and get it from Miss Cutler. Or did he give it to her? Is it hers now?”

“No! Oh, no!” Charley fairly shuddered. “He not give it to her. She take it—Missee Cutler take it—from—from—dead lady!”

Charley’s eyes now glowed with horror, even fright. But whatever the meaning of this strange story he was telling, he was certainly in earnest. There was no slyness now—no roguery. The man was deeply stirred by some emotion—some sense of duty.

Hutchins’ own calm gave way.

“Miss Cutler took it from the dead lady! From Mrs. Barham? What are you talking about?”

“Go easy,” Glenn warned him. “He’ll shut up or bolt, if you’re not careful.”

“Right, Glenn,” and Hutchins put a guard on his impatience.

“When did she take it Charley?” he asked. “When did Miss Cutler take the lucky piece from Mrs. Barham?”

“After—after she dead—oh, oh!” His long, yellow hands flew up and covered his eyes. Clearly, he was envisioning a horrible memory.

Hutchins’ mind worked like lightning.

“Charley,” he said, “who killed the lady? Who killed Mrs. Barham? Did Mr. Locke do it?”

But no answer came. The slant eyes seeemed [sic] to be of glass, so meaningless, so unalive they became.