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 some time before she was killed. I’ve tried and tried to think it was an accident—but it wasn’t. The doctors agree on that and, too, I can see that it couldn’t have been.”

Barham sat back in his chair and pushed away from the table.

His hair gleamed golden in the morning sunlight, his heavy eyebrows of the same color, seemed to contract into a straight line as he gazed intently at Nelson.

“Nick, they say that Locke man killed her. I’m not so sure that he did. But I want to find the murderer—that’s one thing I’m sure of. Will you help me do that?”

“Rather! But I’m no good as a sleuth. I’m willing enough—and I’m shrewd, in a way—but I’ve none of that detective instinct in my make-up. Now, I’ve heard of a man”

“No, don’t drag in a private detective. They’re no good—and too, the police detective on this case seems to be a clever sort. Give him his chance. But I want to find out some things—about—Madeleine. That’s an admission, isn’t it, for a man to make, concerning his own wife! But I did a lot of thinking last night—and, well, maybe, I didn’t treat the girl right—after all.”

“Hush that, Drew! Since you’ve raised the question, let me say once for all, you’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. Maddy was beautiful, she was accomplished, and all that—but she—she wasn’t right! You did everything, and more, that mortal man could do—but the woman was—she was wrong.”

“Explain yourself, please,” and Andrew Barham’s blue-gray eyes took on that deeper blue that came to them in moments of extreme anger or other strong passion.

“Drop that attitude, Drew,” the other said, quietly. “I’ll tell you if you want me to—or, I’ll not tell you. But