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 full attention, for to his mind it promised to be one of the most interesting problems he had ever tackled.

As a preliminary measure, he visited the studio apartment of Locke.

Glenn was still there on guard, and though he was interested in seeing the new detective he had little confidence that his powers were superior to those of Hutchins and his assistants.

“I’ll just go over the place,” and Lane nodded affably to Glenn and went off by himself.

He noted every bit of furniture and decoration in the studio with critical intentness, now and then making a brief note of something and again, merely nodding in satisfaction at finding something indicative.

On entering Locke’s bedroom, he closed the door, and spent a long time in his examinations. The bathroom, too, claimed his absorbed attention, and when he found on the glass shelf above the washstand a small bottle of powdered pumice stone, he chuckled with satisfaction.

“I am on the right track!” he told himself. “Oh, what a case!”

Next he scanned the smoking-room—and studied carefully the spot where the victim had open found.

The police had forbidden any meddling there, and Lane noted carefully every sign he could find. There was little, however, that seemed to mean anything, but he viewed with interest the white line along the rug, which the police had concluded was powder from the vanity-case also discovered near by.

“But it isn’t!” Lane said to himself. “Powder would be sprinkled grains—or else a soft, wide smear. This is a sharp, clean line—it’s, well, I don’t know what it is—but I have a pretty fair idea!”

On he went, poking into closets and cupboards, opening