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 do so, by way of urging Locke to put in an appearance to protect the girl.”

“If Locke knows all that is going on, and doesn’t come forward to look after his sweetheart, he’s a poor sort of chap.”

“I think he’s in communication with her, somehow. But she’s so uncommunicative, it’s hard to tell.”

“I’ll find out where she stands,” and Lane nodded his head in assurance. “The hardest proposition to tackle is Andrew Barham himself. From your description of him I fancy he can hold his own against a detective’s questioning.”

“Yes, he can. But if he takes a notion to confide in you—and I don’t see why he shouldn’t”

“What does he think of Locke?” Lane interrupted.

“He doesn’t express any definite opinion. His one question is, how did his wife happen to go to Locke’s studio. And, I must say we’re no nearer finding that out than we were the night of the murder.”

“The whole thing is so bizarre, the whole case so incredible that it ought to be easy,” the detective said.

“Easy?”

“Yes; the more strange and unusual the circumstances, the easier it is, usually, to ferret out their meaning. Well, I’ll go ahead in my own way, and I’ll report to you, Mr. Nelson. As to my attitude toward Mr. Barham, I shall be guided by circumstances, and by developments as they appear. There’ll be no trouble or rivalry between me and the police. I’ll promise you that. I know Hutchins—and he’ll be friendly with me.”

And so Lorimer Lane took up the Barham case. He laid aside some other matters, in order to give it his