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 to the announcement that the police suspected the girl of the murder. He had told the story slowly, for he wanted to catch, if possible, any facial expression or any involuntary exclamation that would hint at a knowledge on the part of husband or mother regarding Madeleine Barham’s acquaintance with Locke.

But he could get nothing of the sort, and, though his quick eyes and ears were eagerly waiting, there was positively nothing to be learned from Barham’s stony calm, or from Mrs. Selden’s nervous agitation.

And so, at the end of his recital, he merely asked Barham his opinion as to the possible guilt of Miss Cutler.

“Of course she did it!” cried Mrs. Selden, not giving Barham a chance to reply. “Could anything be clearer? I don’t know why you haven’t arrested her already! It’s so palpably true—she was jealous”

“Don’t go so fast. Mother,” Barham said quietly. “How could this unknown girl be jealous of our Maddy? You’re not imagining, are you, that Maddy had a vulgar intrigue with some artist? I can’t imagine any such case as that—if you can!”

Marcia Selden was silenced for once. She could easily imagine the girl’s jealousy, but she, too, was at a loss to apply that jealousy to her Madeleine.

“Nothing can ever make me believe that my wife knew these people socially,” Barham declared. “I cannot understand her presence there at all, but whatever her errand down there was, it was something other than social. Don’t ask me to explain her elaborate costume—quite evidently prepared for the occasion. I don’t know anything about that. Maybe it was mere idle curiosity of a society woman to see a bit of studio life. But it is impossible that Mrs. Barham was there as a social guest.”

His arms were still folded across his chest, his gaze