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 n I was at home, at my own table, with those two unsuspecting women, I felt the veriest scoundrel on the face of the earth.”

“Well you’re not!” and Nelson again grasped the hand of his friend.

“I agree to that,” said Lane, looking earnestly at Barham. “But now—will you tell us all you know about the night of the masquerade?”

Barham looked up quickly..

“You think I killed my wife, Mr. Lane. I don’t blame you—or, rather, I mean, I can’t wonder at it. When the police know this story and I suppose they must, I shall be suspected—probably accused—possibly convicted. That I must bear—for ‘he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die.’ But—I didn’t kill my wife.”

“Thank God!” and Nelson’s fervent expression told how eagerly he had been waiting for this declaration. He believed Barham implicitly; as he believed the whole story he had just heard, so he believed the statement of Barham’s innocence regarding the murder of Madeleine.

“Now the thing is to find the criminal,” Nick exclaimed, his whole face almost radiant with his relief.

But Lane was not so sure of Barham’s integrity.

“Tell us about the party,” he said, his eyes fixed on Barham’s face.

“I will,” and Barham sensed the doubt in the detective’s mind. “I had no wish to have it but some friends urged me to, and though I never had given a large party before, I consented, on condition that they should do all the planning and ordering. To this they consented and even sent out the invitations. I didn’t go down until the night of the ball.”