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“,” Hutchins said, “we can get to work on a real investigation. Of conditions, I mean. Had to do up the possible witnesses first. But they were all impossible witnesses! I never saw a lot of people who knew less—or pretended to.”

“First,” Inspector Dickson remarked, calmly, “we’ll eat. There’s a fine layout in the pantry, and we may as well put some of it to use. Call in Briggs and any others of our men.”

So, instead of funeral baked meats coldly furnishing forth a marriage table, the pleasant little supper ordered for Tommy Locke’s guests regaled the hearty members of the Police Force.

Afterward the two principals made a tour of the place.

In the main, they found little of interest. The usual furniture of a bachelor’s studio quarters; of a man, apparently neither rich nor poverty-stricken. The appointments were plain and far from being over-abundant, yet the place was comfortable.

Small gilded chairs from the caterer’s had, of course, been hired for the occasion, as had a long hatrack in the hall and a similar one in the ladies’ dressing room.

This room interested Hutchins, being, as it was, Locke’s bedroom.

“It ought to give us a line on the man’s personality,” the detective said, hopefully.

But it was not very indicative. The clothing in the wardrobe and the simple toilet articles only gave evidence