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“If he knows, he won’t tell,” Glenn urged. “Get at it in a roundabout way.”

The next day, Hutchins realized that he was taking advice from an humble inferior, but at this moment the suggestion seemed good to him, and he acted on it at once.

“Yes, Charley,” he said; “yes—about that lucky piece, now. Was it a jewel?”

“Donno what you call. But like a flyaway. All same, dead lady had him in her hand.”

“After she was dead?”

“Yes, sir. Then I see Missee Cutler take him out of dead lady’s hand, and put him away, in her blouse. So.”

Charley tucked his hand into his house jacket, with quite evident imitation of a woman concealing a treasure trove in her bodice.

“Charley,” Hutchins looked at him sternly, “why are you telling this now? Is it true? If it is, why didn’t you tell at first?”

Charley looked troubled.

“I like Missee Cutler—but,” he sighed deeply, “I like my Misser Locke more. You make Missee Cutler give me lucky piece for my Misser Locke?”

“I will, indeed—if she has it. You say you saw her take it—from—here, Charley, come into the den and show me.”

Hutchins led the way and Charley obediently followed. Glenn, after them, wondering if they were on the verge of an important revelation or if the Chinaman had them “on a string.”

“Now,” Hutchins said, watching Charley steadily, “Where was Mrs. Barham—the dead lady?”

“Here,” and he indicated the spot where Madeleine had been found.