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“Wait—wait, I tell. No, he wear regla clo’es. Even coat.”

“Ah, his evening clothes. That’s better. What did he do with the monk dress?”

“We found that, Mr. Hutchins,” one of the officers said; “it was in that junk cupboard where the painting things are.”

“Did you put it there, Charley? Did you put it there for Mr. Locke, so he could go away just in his evening clothes? That was nice of you. He told you to, didn’t he?”

But the Chinaman had returned to his overdone cooking, and Hutchins let up on him for the moment.

“That’s it,” he said, exultantly. “Locke vamoosed, tossed his monk’s robe to the boy, and went out into the night. Took his hat from the hat stand as he passed out—or somebody’s hat. Connivance, you see. Now this boy merely ran away from the police because the police scared him. I’ll bet he knows nothing of what took place—and then this morning he returned at six o’clock from force of habit.

“He crept softly into Locke’s room to see if he were there, not wanting to wake him. It’s all fine. But look out that he doesn’t get away. They’re a sly race. We’ll accumulate his fine-smelling breakfast, and then we’ll see what to do with him.”

Hutchins was in fine spirits, and asked to see the monk’s robe.

He gazed carefully at the long plain garment, with its attached hood, deep and peaked.

“Put it away,” he said, to the man, “but, stay, wait a minute, what’s that smear?”

The garment itself was dull brown, but on the front