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“The police cottoned to him, because he had some gold teeth—and so has Tommy Locke,” said Nick.

“Absurd. We aren’t born with gold teeth in our mouths—I suppose heredity might make two brothers lose the same teeth—but, well if the police need him in their business, I’m sorry I sent him off.”

“No; I fancy they owe you a debt of gratitude. Another queer thing has turned up. You know that scarab?”

“Yes—I have seen it. Nothing very valuable.”

“No; so I’m told. But the little girl says it has been changed.”

“Changed—what do you mean?”

“She says the scarab Locke owned was a Royal scarab—from a King’s tomb. And, the one Hutchins has now, the girl says, is quite another stone.”

“Does the girl know about such things?”

“I don’t think she is a connoisseur at all, but she probably knows what Locke told her.”

“Ah, yes—what Locke told her. But, Nick, isn’t it conceivable that Locke described his treasure as being of a higher value than it really was? Can’t you see him, desiring to impress his artist friends, claiming a royal history for a scarab that was merely a poor commoner?”

“That’s easy, too. But the girl declares she knows that the one Hutchins has now—is not the one she gave him.”

“That girl seems bound to make trouble. What’s she like, Nick?”

“Lord, Andrew, I’ve described her to you half a dozen times. Like an Art Student—of course. Big eyes, bobbed hair, little turn-up nose, and a skin like a satin rose-leaf”

“Hold hard, Nick, you sound like an interested observer!”