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 carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error.

However, Andrew Barham took it rationally.

“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be performed. May I then send for the funeral people? May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me terribly.”

One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham had a fine, a sensible attitude. It was plain to be seen how shocked and grieved he was, it was clearly evident that he was holding on to his composure by mere will power, and every one present wanted to favor him in every possible way.

“You know where to find me,” he went on. “Here is my business card—I am a consulting engineer, and though I have several business engagements out of the city, for the immediate future, I shall, of course, cancel them all. Prall, call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as soon as may be.”

“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Barham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you know even less than we do. You frequently spent your evenings in different places?”

“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we came and went as we chose.”

“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?”

“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham went to her rooms to dress for some party, and I went to my Club.”

“What Club was that, sir?”