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 any man on earth, and I know him to be incapable of dishonesty in any form. Yet, I know when he told me he exchanged those scarabs, he did exchange them. Now, I want you to find out why.”

“On the face of it,” Lane said, “it looks very much as if he were shielding somebody at his own expense—that is, if you are right in banking so securely on his honesty.”

“Oh, I’m right in that,” Nick returned.

“Very well, I’ll take up the matter. Now, Mr. Nelson, tell me everything you know about it. Everything you can possibly think of that has any connection with it.”

And Nick Nelson spent the better part of two hours, detailing all he knew, both from the police reports and from his personal knowledge of the Barhams and their friends and acquaintances.

Lane was especially interested in anything concerning Tommy Locke—perhaps because it was regarding that elusive gentleman that Nelson’s information was the least definite.

“He seems a harmless sort,” Nick said; “not at all the kind of man you think of as a murderer. A mediocre artist, a good pal, a quiet sort of person generally. His servant adores him, his friends all like him, and the little girl, who is supposed to be his sweetheart, is desperately in love with him.”

“She’ll be a mine of information, then,” Lane observed. “I’m good at getting at the sweethearts.”

“She’s not so easy, though. For a young thing, and a demure, innocent looking person, she has a lot of reserve force of character that crops out unexpectedly. I don’t know her personally, you understand, though I’ve seen her, but Detective Hutchins has told me a lot about her. Sometimes I believe he thinks she’s mixed up in the actual crime, and then again, I feel sure he’s only pretending to