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Andrew Barham folded his arms and sat back in his chair, as one who has played his part.

But Lane pursued his inquiries.

“Now, how about the scarab, Mr. Barham?”

“Oh, yes, the scarab. It is my own—and is, as Charley called it, a ‘lucky piece.’ I have had it for years, and I am a bit superstitious about it. Foolishly, I took it down to the studio and left it there. It was, I think, on the table in the den, and—I am only surmising now—but I fancy my wife saw it and recognized it as mine. She had it in her hand when she died—that is certain. Miss Cutler, thinking I cherished it, took it and saved it for me. My Chinaman saw this. Well, never mind all that—when Detective Hutchins showed it to me, I knew at once that the Museum people would recognize it as mine. It is a famous specimen. So I substituted another for it—both being my own property.”

“Yes—I see,” and Lane pondered a few moments. “Now, Mr. Barham, in view of your frank disclosures, I must ask you if you want me to continue my investigation of the case.

“I do not.”

“Do you, Mr. Nelson?”

“I want whatever Mr. Barham wants. He is my friend, and I agree to any decision he may make.”

“Can you tell me, Mr. Barham,” Lane went on, thoughtfully, “why your wife went down there that evening?”

“No; I cannot. That is what puzzles me. I should think it might be possible that she had seen or heard something that made her suspect the truth about me, and that she went down to see for herself. But I cannot think that; first, because I can see no possible way in which her suspicions could have been aroused, and also,