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“This won’t do,” he said after a moment. “I can’t take the responsibility of your disclosures. Come with me at once to Andrew Barham. We will lay all our cards on the table. If he has done this thing—he will tell me so. I know Barham.”

And so the detective and the man who had employed him went together to Barham’s office.

He received them gravely, seeming to know their errand.

He took them to his private office, and at once opened the subject himself.

“My secret is a secret no longer,” he said, and looked at Nelson with a strange, almost wistful smile.

“Tell me it isn’t so, Drew,” Nelson cried; “tell me you never did such a thing!”

“As what?”

“As to pretend to be Locke—and all that!”

“Is it so terrible?” Barham looked thoughtful. “Yes, I am Locke, as I see Mr. Lane has already discovered. Do you want to hear the story, Nick?”

“Indeed I do.”

“It isn’t a unique one, I daresay.” Barham still had that far-away look in his eyes and an absorbed expression on his face.

But he told his story with dignity and with a fine faith in Nelson’s ability and willingness to understand.

“You know, Nick, that Maddy and I were never congenial in our tastes or in our selection of companions. I couldn’t bear that crowd that she enjoyed so much, and she never liked the quieter people I preferred.

“I honestly tried to adapt my preferences to hers, and to bring about a state of affairs whereby we could be more congenial, but she wouldn’t make any concessions. I’m not blaming her, you understand, but—well, I suppose the