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were checked and hysterics forgotten in an intense and burning curiosity.

Mrs. Andrew Barham—here—at Tommy Locke’s party!

It could scarcely be believed.

They stared at the imperturbable chauffeur. It was plain to be seen that the man was deeply moved, but his training prevented any expression of grief or excitement.

“Does any one here know Mr. Barham?” Hutchins inquired.

He stood in the doorway between the studio and the den, or smoking room. Indeed, the interest had become so intense it was almost impossible to set a barrier to such as insisted on forcing a way.

But the detective had guards watching the places and people he was most interested in.

No one did—that was clear. And no one knew Mrs. Barham personally, though nearly all had heard her name.

“But to be here, she must have been somebody’s friend,” Hutchins persisted. “I find that there were perhaps fifty invited guests—and I’m told there were perhaps about sixty-five or seventy people here. So many invited guests brought friends or asked them. It may be that was the way Mrs. Barham came—so who brought her?”

It was impossible to get any other than negative replies.

The only conclusion to be drawn was that Mrs. Barham came to the party as the guest of some one who had