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 of that before. What makes you think I took anything from the dead woman?”

“You were seen to do so.”

“By that lying Chinaman! I refuse to answer if he is your informant.”

“But he saw you—he was directly behind you. You leaned over and took the thing—and in so doing you touched your sleeve to her wounded forehead, thus making the smear which you afterward washed out.”

“No, you are all wrong—I did none of those things.”

“Then—then you won’t mind if I look about a bit for it? You see, if I look through your place and announce that I can’t find it—they won’t send somebody else to look—somebody with a warrant.”

He hated to frighten the poor child, but it had to be done. He had learned the most effective way to deal with her.

“Look through my things!” she cried, staring at him.

“Yes; if you haven’t it—as you say you haven’t—you can have no objection—and truly, if I don’t, some one else will.”

“Go ahead,” she said, and sat watching him.

In a perfunctory fashion, Hutchins pulled open a few drawers of her writing desk and work table. He wasn’t really looking, he was watching her face hoping to learn from its expression what way to turn.

Nor was he in error. She fell easily into his trap. With no thought of being studied, Pearl Jane did all he could hope for. When he was looking in some places, she drew a long breath of contentment and satisfaction. Again, her breath would come quickly, her eyes turn dark with apprehension and her tightly clasped hands tremble.

So, he knew at last, that what he sought was—must be, in an upper drawer of an old secretary. He reached up

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 for it, and as he saw the look of utter despair on her face, he pulled out the whole drawer, a small one, and lifted it down.

But his find was not a “lucky piece”—instead it was something far more gruesome. For, wadded up in a corner of the drawer was a long white kid glove—stained on the fingertips with a brownish tinge—unmistakably human blood.

It did not need her breatheart [sic]-broken cry of dismay to tell him he had discovered her secret, and he came slowly toward her.

“Miss Cutler—is this yours?”

“No—oh, no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” indignantly.

“Then whose is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why is it here?”

She braced up. Whatever the reason—perhaps sheer desperation—she sat up straight, drew herself together, and answered:

“I found it on the floor near the body of Mrs. Barham.”

“When you leaned over her?”

“Yes; I did lean over to see if she were dead or alive. I was horribly frightened, but I thought it my duty to see that, at least.”

“And she was dead?”

“I think so. I tried to feel her heart, but I couldn’t—there was such an elaborate fringe and tinsel on the bodice. So, I—well, Mr. Hutchins, I think I rather lost my head. I had never seen a dead person before—like that, I mean—and I don’t know what I did. I grabbed the glove”

“Why?”

I think I had a half formed fear that it might belong

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 to some one I knew—that crime might be suspected”

“But it’s a woman’s glove”

“I know. But is a woman never guilty of crime?”

“Murder?”

“It has been known, hasn’t it? And isn’t the weapon that was used—a heavy weight, more the thing a woman would use? Can you imagine a man throwing that at a woman?”

“Yes, more easily than I can imagine a woman doing it. You are romancing, Miss Cutler”

“I am not! I am telling you the truth. I was scared, even dazed at the awful situation, and I took the glove—brought it home and hid it—all because of that vague fear that it might implicate some one I care for—a dear friend”

“Miss Vallon?”

“Yes, of course,” impatiently. “But I learned that she had her gloves—both of them—and then I thought no more about it. If that glove is of any importance, take it—I don’t know whose it is.”

“I will take it. But don’t think I can’t read you! You are trying to turn the conversation away from the main theme—trying to turn suspicion away from the man you love. Away from Thomas Locke. You suspect him yourself—but you want to shield him. That is why you went to the dead woman. That is why you bent down over her—You thought you would remove incriminating evidence, if you could find any. You opened her hand—the dead woman’s hand, whether you found anything in it or not. What did you expect to find?”

“Nothing,” Pearl Jane was sullen now. She kept her eyes down, her head turned away.

But, during the conversation, Hutchins’s ever busy eyes had found something else.

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“Miss Cutler,” he said, this time very suddenly, “was it the scarab?”

Her frightened stare told him he had guessed right.

“What—what scarab?” she breathed.

“Mr. Locke had a scarab—a lucky piece. Charley calls it a Flyaway! That’s what made me think of it—when I saw where you have hidden the thing. And a wonderfully clever place! You are a marvel!”

“I don’t know what you mean”

“Oh, yes, you do know what I mean. If you don’t—I’ll show you.”

Unfastening his cuff-link, and pushing back his sleeve, Hutchins thrust his arm into a globe of goldfish, and from among the little stones at the bottom, he brought up a stone scarab.

“A valuable one,” he commented, looking at its Egyptian inscription. “And more valuable, I suppose, for its lucky powers. And the dead woman had this in her hand?”

“Yes, she did,” said Pearl Jane, angrily, “make the most of it!”

“I most certainly shall,” said Hutchins, gravely, and with the scarab and the stained glove both in his possession, he went away.

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94 made religious pilgrimages to the salt lakes below the Mexican boundary to obtain the sacred salt. They lived on pinole during the journey and walked with their eyes fixed upon the trail, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

As they approached the shore of the lagoon in which the Great Spirit resided they ran at topmost speed and circled four times around the salt deposits before those who understood the proper ritual began to collect the salt. Even on the homeward journey there was magic power in the salt, and if a horse died the whole load was thrown away. As the salt gatherers approached the home village they were given a noisy welcome but were compelled to remain outside for four days, and for a long time thereafter they must abstain from certain acts that need not be detailed here. For four days those who remained at home sang for those who journeyed, and then all might eat the salt and were free to bring it to the Pimas. The latter sometimes made journeys to the lake for salt, being two days on the way to Quijotoa and two days on the trail beyond.

In exchange for the objects of barter brought to them the Pimas gave wheat, which was also given the Papagos for aid in harvesting it; corn; beans; mesquite beans; mesquite meal, roasted in mud-lined pits; cotton blankets and cotton fiber, with the seed; dried squash, pumpkin, and melon; rings of willow splints and of devil's claw for baskets; besides articles of lesser consequence.

In recent years there has been some trade carried on in colored earths and salt with the once hostile Yumas and Mohaves.

From the seventeenth century the Pimas sent well-armed bands through the Apache cordon to trade at the Spanish and Mexican settlements of Sonora. The latter also sent trading parties from Tucson and other towns to barter with the Gileños. Lastly, American traders appeared about 1850, and for many years there have been half a dozen stores on the reservation. These are under bond to limit their profit to a maximum of 25 per cent, though it is supposed that this rule was never enforced until the present year. Some Pimas sometimes try to turn the tables on the traders by offering damp wheat that of course overweighs. More frequently they put a quantity of sand in the middle of the wheat sacks, which are furnished by the trader and not ordinarily emptied when the wheat is brought in. Rarely, the best wheat is put on top and an inferior quality lies concealed beneath.

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listened to Hutchins’s story with a very sober expression.

“I may be wrong,” the Inspector said, finally, “but I certainly do believe that girl did it. For, on the face of it, Hutchins, what else is there to think? She is in love with Locke—that’s sure. I’m not so sure he is in love with her—and you know, ‘a woman scorned,’ is”

“Is the devil and all. But I can’t see that slip of a youngster killing anybody.”

“It was done on a sudden impulse—that’s clear. Nobody throws a heavy bronze weight premeditatedly. It looks like a woman’s deed to me. Of course, this presupposes an acquaintance—probably more than that—between Mrs. Barham and the artist. But we have to suppose that—there’s no other assumption that allows for her coming there at all.”

“She could have come out of the usual curiosity of the upper circles to see what the Bohemians do at their revels. That’s not an unknown proposition.”

“I see you’re prejudiced in the girl’s favor. I can’t blame you for that. But we must look facts in the face. The visiting lady had in her hand the lucky piece which is evidently greatly prized by Locke. He even sent a note to Charley to find it for him. Now, we know that Mrs. Barham had it in her hand when she died. Maybe she was killed for it.”

“Oh, that’s too fantastic!”

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“Not at all. You don’t know what that thing may mean to these people. Haven’t you read stories about”

“Yes—I know. The Idol’s Eye—a great ruby or emerald stolen from a Persian god—but those things were real gems. This scarab is a curio”

“Scarabs—certain ones—are more valuable than any gems. However, that doesn’t matter—if it’s the superstitious value of the thing—which I am sure it is. Now, say that Mrs. Barham was mixed up with Locke, say that Miss Cutler was jealous of her, say that Mrs. Barham did steal the scarab—isn’t it at least possible that the girl, unable to get it back, and frenzied by rage and love both, picked up the bronze and threw it almost involuntarily, of course not meaning to kill her?”

“It is possible, certainly,” Hutchins looked anxious, “but I wish we could find some other theory.”

“I wish we could, too. But what else is there? Then you see, if the girl did it, and if Locke knows it, why, that’s the reason he has lit out. He’s afraid he’ll be questioned, and he’s shielding that girl.”

“That makes Locke in love with the girl.”

“Very likely he is. Perhaps the other woman was an old flame—well, I can’t explain all the turns and twists of an artist’s love affair—but I still think it was the girl who threw that book-end.”

“People have no business to have such things around,” growled Hutchins.

“Don’t be silly. In a moment of blind rage, anything handy becomes a weapon. Look how often a paper-cutter is used to stab, merely because it lies ready to hand. Let’s see the scarab, again.”

With the air of a wise owl Dickson studied the ancient stone.

“I don’t know much about these things in a scholarly

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 way,” he frankly admitted, “but I do know this. If this thing is a real tip-topper among scarabs—and I think it is—a connoisseur would know all about it, and probably know this identical specimen. They’re all recorded—the famous ones.”

Hutchins looked surprised at this erudition on Dickson’s part.

“Then we can trace it,” he said.

“Yes—if it is a famous one. Take it up to the Metropolitan Museum, that’s the quickest and surest way to find out. Now, as to the glove—and there’s another sure fire clue. Haven’t you an odd glove in your collection of trinkets found on or near the spot?”

“Yes—and it seems to be a mate to this one. But that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Not alone, but in connection with the fact that Miss Cutler hid this glove, and the other was found right where she was seen to be—well, it’s decidedly cumulative evidence! Now, what we want is some—even one connecting link—between the artist and Mrs. Barham. Until we get that—why, any other man at the party may have been the villain of this tale, instead of Locke.”

“It was his scarab.”

“Yes—that’s so—and doubtless the whole tragedy centers around him. But, we must get a thread of connection, somehow. If you should go to Mr. Barham again—or to that Nelson—wouldn’t they tell you if they have run across anything?”

“I should think so—but Mr. Barham is getting queer about it all. At first he was ready to move heaven and earth to learn how or why his wife came to go to that party. Also he offered the reward, you know, for Locke. Also, he was keen to find and punish the murderer. But

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 now, he’s—well, sort of apathetic. Doesn’t seem to care what we do, so long as we don’t bother him.”

“What does he do—with his time?”

“I don’t know. Nothing especial, I guess. But he has taken up some of the more important matters of his business—he’s a big consulting engineer, you know. He canceled everything at first—but he’s picking them up again.”

“That’s natural and to be expected. Doubtless they’re most important deals, and he really has to give them his attention. And why shouldn’t he?”

“Why, indeed? Well, I’ll see him to-day, and Nelson, and I hope to goodness they’ll have something to tell me that will turn you off the track of that poor girl.”

“I hope so, Hutch, but don’t let your sympathy for Beauty in distress blind your eyes to facts and evidence.”

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Hutchins went off, hoping against hope that he could clear Pearl Jane. It was too absurd to suspect that pretty little thing—but, as Dickson had put it, there was a chance that she had lost her temper, and had thrown the missile—women were uncertain at best.

And Hutchins had to admit to himself that Pearl Jane was exceedingly uncertain. He had seen her gentle, pathetic, sweet—and then sullen and obstinate—all in the same five minutes. Yes, hers was a peculiar personality.

After due deliberation he concluded to go to see Andrew Barham before he saw Nelson. He didn’t know himself just why he made this decision, but it was really due to a lurking hope that it would turn out better for the girl that way.

By telephoning, he learned that Barham was not at his office that day, but at his home. This was by no means

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 unusual, and Hutchins started off for the Fifth Avenue house.

He was admitted and ushered into a sort of family living-room, where, to his surprise he found Mrs. Selden as well as her son-in-law.

“I asked to have you brought here, Mr. Hutchins,” the lady said, looking at him with a condescending interest, as if he were some necessary but unattractive piece of furniture. “I desire a few words with you myself.”

She paused, perhaps expecting some burst of delighted surprise at this honor, but Hutchins merely made a slight bow of acquiescence.

“What have you done toward the finding of my daughter’s murderer?” she asked, and her commanding air seemed to imply that she expected a full and satisfactory report of the police proceedings.

Mrs. Selden sat bolt upright, in a high-backed chair. Her gown was most fashionably made, though of the deepest mourning that could be devised. The hem of heavy crape reached nearly to her waist line, and the crape bodice had such a high neck and such long sleeves, that none of her throat and only her finger-tips could be seen. Her white hair showed large ornamental hairpins of black dull jet, and her handkerchief was as deeply black bordered as it is possible for a handkerchief to be.

Very aristocratic and very imposing was her appearance and manner, but Hutchins was by no means overcome with awe at her grandeur.

“We have done all that we found to do, Madam,” the detective returned, speaking respectfully, but by no means humbly. “Rest assured, the work is going on—but so far, the evidence is slender and the clues are few.”

“I am quite sure it is your fault if that is so,” Mrs.

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 Selden spoke raspingly, “I doubt very much if your board or company or whatever is it, has put on sufficient men or sufficiently skillful men.”

“Mother,” Barham remonstrated, “Mr. Hutchins is himself the principal detective on the case, and his record is a fine one”

“Will you hush, Andrew! I do wish I might be permitted to say half a dozen words without interruption! I know you want to do the talking yourself, but let me remind you that Madeleine was my daughter, as well as your wife. And, I may add that I am far more deeply concerned and anxious about the discovery of her murderer than you appear to be. Mr. Hutchins, have you questioned everybody that was at that infamous revel?”

“If you refer to Mr. Locke’s studio party, yes, Madam, they have all been questioned.”

“And you made no arrest?”

“No information was received from the guests that warranted any arrest.”

“Ah, you couldn’t have questioned very closely—or very intelligently. For it is impossible that my daughter should have gone there without knowing some one—somebody who was present.”

“That seemed to be the case. Wherefore, we assumed that your daughter must have been acquainted with Mr. Locke himself.”

“With Mr. Locke! My daughter know a common artist! Never! She might have gone there to see about having her portrait painted”

“Mr. Locke is not a portrait painter.”

“Perhaps some other painter was there who does do portraits of society ladies.”

“I can think of none such,” and Hutchins hastily sized

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 up this new idea in his mind. But it seemed to promise nothing.

“She would scarcely attend a party where she knew no one, merely to make arrangements for a portrait,” he said, as if thinking aloud.

“Do not presume to say what my daughter would or would not do, sir. That is outside your province. Remain within your own rightful boundaries of thought and speech.”

Hutchins looked at her. He had never been treated quite like this before. And, apparently, Andrew Barham didn’t dare call his soul his own, even in his own home.

But Barham was by no means afraid of his mother-in-law. His hesitancy to rouse her temper was partly because he so hated the scenes she made and partly because he really felt a tenderness for the mother of his wife.

Still, he couldn’t quite allow this. So he said:

“Please, Mother, try to remember that Mr. Hutchins represents the dignity of the law, and so, even aside from his own merits, commands our respect and courtesy.”

Marcia Selden took him up.

“Andrew!” she exclaimed, “will you never cease scolding me? You omit no chance to reprimand me, to hold me up to the scorn of others. Shouldn’t you think, Mr. Hutchins, that a man would be a little kindly inclined to one who is the mother of his wife? But, no, all Mr. Barham ever says to me is by way of fault finding and reproach!”

The black handkerchief was pressed against the tearful eyes, and Hutchins, not feeling privileged to side with either, said nothing.

Barham repressed an angry impulse, and said, with a kind but long-suffering air:

“Not quite that, Mother. I never forget our relationship”

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“But you’d like to forget it! You’d like to sever it! You wish I’d go away and live by myself.”

“I don’t admit that—but let’s not discuss it now. Mr. Hutchins is here on business, I think. Perhaps you will leave us alone for a little”

“That I won’t! And have you cook up some scheme by which the crime will be glossed over and forgotten, and the mystery of Maddy’s death will never be solved.”

Hutchins broke in then with a definite determination.

“Mrs. Selden,” he said, “if you will let me, I will give you an idea of what the police have done and are doing.”

“Are there any new developments?” Barham asked.

“There are,” Hutchins replied. And then, seeing no reason Mrs. Selden shouldn’t know the details as well as Barham himself, Hutchins told the whole story of the scarab.

He told of the mysterious note Charley had received, asking him to find the “lucky piece.” He told of Charley’s futile search, and subsequent call on the detective for help. He told of Charley’s description of seeing Pearl Jane bending over Mrs. Barham and taking something from her hand.

Andrew Barham listened with an inscrutable face and immovable countenance. He sat with folded arms, his eyes intently fixed on Hutchins’s face.

Mrs. Selden, on the contrary, was nervous and excited. She said little, for, when she interrupted, Hutchins peremptorily bade her be silent.

Also, she, too, was deeply interested. She twisted her handkerchief until it was a mere wisp, she picked at her gown, and she now and then broke into weeping.

But Barham didn’t look at her. He sat listening to Hutchins, saying no word, but seeming like a man in a trance.

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Hutchins went on with the tale, and came to the scene at the home of Miss Cutler. He told of finding the scarab in the goldfish bowl, where she had so cleverly hidden it.

“Have you the scarab?” Barham asked, speaking for the first time during the recital. “Is it really valuable?”

“You know scarabs, Drew,” Mrs. Selden said, “you brought some home from Egypt, didn’t you?”

“Yes; Mother; but I’m not a real connoisseur. Mine are good specimens—but not by any means famous ones. Is Locke’s, Mr. Hutchins?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to take it to the Museum, and have it sized up. Want to see it? I doubt if it’s what you call famous.”

He took the stone beetle from his pocket and handed it over.

Andrew Barham examined it with interest; first courteously offering it for Mrs. Selden’s inspection. But she merely glanced at it, saying, “It looks like all the others to me.”

“I don’t think it is a King’s scarab,” Barham observed as he examined the thing; “I’ll just take it to my library a minute, while I look it up in a book I have.”

He was gone but a moment, and returned saying, “As I thought—it is a good one, but not a royal scarab. Doubtless, as you intimated, the value to Locke lay in its associations—or perhaps a superstition—rather than in its money value.”

He gave one more glance at the stone he held and then handed it back to Hutchins, who wrapped it in its bit of paper and returned it to his pocket.

Then Hutchins told them about the stained glove he had found hidden in Miss Cutler’s room, and at last his hearers began to realize that the detective was leading up

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 to the announcement that the police suspected the girl of the murder. He had told the story slowly, for he wanted to catch, if possible, any facial expression or any involuntary exclamation that would hint at a knowledge on the part of husband or mother regarding Madeleine Barham’s acquaintance with Locke.

But he could get nothing of the sort, and, though his quick eyes and ears were eagerly waiting, there was positively nothing to be learned from Barham’s stony calm, or from Mrs. Selden’s nervous agitation.

And so, at the end of his recital, he merely asked Barham his opinion as to the possible guilt of Miss Cutler.

“Of course she did it!” cried Mrs. Selden, not giving Barham a chance to reply. “Could anything be clearer? I don’t know why you haven’t arrested her already! It’s so palpably true—she was jealous”

“Don’t go so fast. Mother,” Barham said quietly. “How could this unknown girl be jealous of our Maddy? You’re not imagining, are you, that Maddy had a vulgar intrigue with some artist? I can’t imagine any such case as that—if you can!”

Marcia Selden was silenced for once. She could easily imagine the girl’s jealousy, but she, too, was at a loss to apply that jealousy to her Madeleine.

“Nothing can ever make me believe that my wife knew these people socially,” Barham declared. “I cannot understand her presence there at all, but whatever her errand down there was, it was something other than social. Don’t ask me to explain her elaborate costume—quite evidently prepared for the occasion. I don’t know anything about that. Maybe it was mere idle curiosity of a society woman to see a bit of studio life. But it is impossible that Mrs. Barham was there as a social guest.”

His arms were still folded across his chest, his gaze

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 was still cold and direct, and Hutchins saw at once that, whatever the truth of the matter might be, Andrew Barham believed implicitly in the statements he made.

“That is true,” Marcia Selden agreed. “I think, Andrew, you might exert yourself a little more to learn what took Maddy there. But I must agree with you”—she seemed to hate to do so—“that my daughter never went there as a guest. I mean as one of the social circle there. She had a later engagement at the home of a friend, so, you see, she merely stopped at the studio place, en route. Either it was to see about a portrait, or to satisfy a bit of curiosity—or both.”

“Could it have been in any way connected with Mrs. Barham’s—er—Bridge habits”

Alarmed lest Hutchins tell something disparaging to Maddy, which he hoped to keep from the knowledge of Mrs. Selden, Barham rose suddenly, and said:

“That reminds me, Mr. Hutchins, I have an important engagement. If Mrs. Selden will excuse us, will you walk along with me—toward my destination?”

The detective agreed, and once outside the door, Barham told him of the ruse.

“You know much concerning my wife’s Bridge debts,” Barham said, “and, if necessary, it will have to be made public. But unless it is—or, until it is, I want to keep it from Mrs. Selden. It would distress her beyond measure.”

Hutchins marveled at the character of a man who would be so careful of the sensibilities of a woman who so trampled on his own; but he only said:

“I can’t see now, Mr. Barham, the slightest connection between Mrs. Barham’s Bridge cronies and the tragedy of the studio. Unless such comes to light, her Bridge affairs need never reach the ears of the public.”

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Their ways diverged then, Hutchins going to the Museum to inquire about the value of the scarab.

The authorities there told him practically the same as Barham had said. It was a genuine antique scarab—and was worth perhaps a hundred dollars. But it was by no means a museum piece or an especially fine specimen of its period.

So, Hutchins concluded, Locke valued it mostly for some sentiment or association. This, however, had no bearing on its value as evidence against Pearl Jane Cutler.

That young woman put in a pretty miserable day. She knew not whether she would be accused of murder—or being an accessory after the fact—whatever that meant! or what would happen to her. She confabbed with Kate Vallon, and then she went to Henry Post for advice and counsel.

They could say little, except to express sympathy and indignation at the suspicion cast on her.

“You didn’t do it, P. J., did you?” Post asked.

“No,” she said, dully—“but if I had, I should say I hadn’t.”

These artists seemed not to have very deep susceptibilities. Both Post and Rodman Jarvis, though good pals of Locke’s, had practically no help to offer Pearl Jane. In their circle, every man was for himself—and every woman also. They were not hard-hearted—they were merely cold-blooded and absorbed in their own affairs.

“They’ll never arrest the kid,” Post said to Jarvis. “Why worry? And, for all I know, there may have been some affair between Locke and the Barham woman. I keep out of such messes all I can.”

And Jarvis, though ready to do all he could for Locke in his absence, had no wish to take up Pearl Jane’s burdens.

Kate Vallon was devoted to the girl, and she wept with

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 her and gave sound and really good advice, which included, among other things, a sudden and secret disappearance.

“It’s the only thing,” Kate said; “that’s what Tommy did, and you must go. I’ll help you off, and I know just the place for you to go.”

Rut Pearl Jane doggedly refused to do this. No reason would she give, and Kate retired in dudgeon.

Left to herself, Pearl Jane moped and worried, and at last, about ten o’clock, she began to think of going to bed.

And then her telephone bell rang.

“Hello,” she said, listlessly, and an answering voice said “Hello.”

Like a wave of revivifying joy, the sound went to her heart, and softly, as if half afraid, she breathed—“Tommy!”

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368 in power and wickedness—beings, whose society, if they were merely human, would be systematically shunned by the wise and the good; whose movements would be scrupulously watched by the myrmidons of a vigilant magistracy; whose most frequent homes ought to be the penitentiary or the jail; and whose exit from the stage of time might well be the penalty-consecrated pathway of the most reprobate of felons! Think of all this, with seriousness and sobriety, and then say, whether the unavoidable tendency of the whole be not to blunt the sense of decency—to extinguish all feeling of delicacy—to replenish the imagination with thoughts of impurity—to pollute the best of the affections—to sear and deaden the conscience, and so render it insensible to the distinctions of right and wrong, truth and falsehood; to stunt the growth of every nobler and more generous aspiration—to excite into inordinate development every grosser and more prurient inclination of the naturally corrupt heart; in a word, to habituate to scenes, sentiments, and practices which cannot fail to issue in a depravation of all morals and a deterioration of all manly character. And yet, is not this, with exceptions so few, and modifications so partial and unimportant, as not materially to affect the general estimate—is not this indisputably, in its broad and characteristic lineaments, a painful but a faithful portraiture of the actual condition of the great masses of the native population?

From a picture so deplorable of the wholly uninstructed many, who are thus entirely abandoned to the education of circumstances, it may be thought that some relief must be found in turning the eyes away and fixing them on the variously instructed few. In other more highly favoured lands, such relief is to be found as an ever ready refuge. In Great Britain it is calculated that there may be a million of youth without any means of school instruction, and several millions of adults that exhibit the bitter fruits of ignorance, and so entail on society at large the retributive awards of its criminal neglect. But there, if, at the foundations of the social pyramid, we are painfully compelled to behold a huge chaotic congeries of base materials, such as iron mixed with clay, we may, above these, be cheered with the spectacle of a finer stratum of brass—on which may be superimposed another of silver—while the whole may be seen surmounted with a head or apex of gold. As to the cultivation of intellect, and the acquisition of useful knowledge, are there not thousands and even tens of thousands who have reached the highest standard to which civilized humanity has yet attained? Witness the effects! effects which, in real, tangible, visible forms, seem almost to outstrip the fabled metamorphoses of antiquity. What changes, what transitions,


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]

The manufactures of the Pimas were few in number and simple in character. It is interesting to compare the number of implements and weapons that are of wood with those made of stone, as this is a people classed as belonging to the Stone Age. It will be noticed that the articles of stone are of little consequence in point of number as compared with those of wood, but the stone objects are of the utmost importance from a cultural standpoint. The metate admits of no wooden substitute, and without it the full food value of maize could not have been utilized nor could wheat raising have been so readily taken up as an agricultural pursuit. Without the stone ax and knife there could have been little done in wood working; architecture would have been modified; agriculture, dependent upon irrigation, would have been all but impossible. In short, these three simple implements, made by striking one stone against another, have sufficed to transform the Pimas from the slaves of a harsh environment, compelled to rend their prey with tooth and nail, into an agricultural people who adapt the environment to their needs and make some provision, however slight, for the future.

Bow. First in importance among weapons must be placed the bow and the arrow. Pima bows are simple, undecorated, and not very carefully made. Those which exhibit weakness through splitting or otherwise are bound with fresh sinew in bands which shrink around the arms at the point where reenforcement is needed. Warriors made their bows of mulberry wood obtained in the Superstition and Pinal mountains. A bow that has been long used, especially in successful warfare, becomes a highly prized possession with which its owner is loath to part. The writer was so fortunate as to secure such a specimen (pl., a) which has the graceful compound curve of the conventional bow; it is of mulberry wood and has a neatly twisted, two-strand sinew string. Hunting bows (pl., b) are frequently made of osage orange wood, a material that is now obtainable from the whites along the Salt river. When mulberry wood was not available willow was used, and most of the hunting bows which men as well as boys continue to make for hunting hares and similar small game are of that wood. The primary type of arrow release prevails, the bow being held as in plate, b.

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, little girl—it’s Tommy. Are you alone?”

“Yes—where are you?”

“Never mind—it’s all right. Now, listen, child—is that story true, about your taking the scarab from—from her hand?”

“Yes, Tommy.”

“Why did you do it?”

“It was yours and you cared a lot for it. She had no right to it—had she?”

“Well—no. But I fear it’s going to get you into trouble.”

“Yes—I am in trouble. They say I killed her.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, Tommy! Don’t! How can you say such a thing?”

“Look here, dear, before we go any further—do you think I killed her?”

“Oh—I don’t know”

“Do you think so?”

“I did think so. I saw you run away—and”

“That’s enough. Then, at least, that proves you didn’t do it!”

“Why, I just told you I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, so you did”

“How queer you are, Tommy. Aren’t you ever coming back?”

“No—I think not.”

“Oh”

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“Do you care? Pearl Jane, would you care if you never saw me again?”

“Yes—I’d care! But you wouldn’t!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I! Well—but, dear, the whole thing is such a mess. I wish I could see you”

“Well, why can’t you? Oh, Tommy, tell me something! Are you bald?”

“Bald! Lord, no! What do you mean?”

“Don’t you wear a wig?”

“I do not! Oh, you dear little girl, the sound of your voice makes me long to see you—I never knew before how much I cared”

“You didn’t care—the night of—of the masquerade.”

“I did—oh, Pearl Jane, I did—but—I didn’t know it.”

“And I don’t know it now. I think you’re cruel to tantalize me like this—and I’m going to hang up.”

“No, don’t—oh, wait a minute. What shall I do? Look here, Pearl Jane, I don’t know when I can telephone again. Perhaps I can manage it all right—but if these detectives take to watching your wire”

“Good-by, Tommy.”

“Same little saucy thing—aren’t you. Pearl Jane—listen—dear. If I tell you I love you—can you trust me for all else?”

“Yes! yes!” joyfully.

“You won’t lose faith in me—whatever happens?”

“No—no I won’t.”

“Then just trust me—dear. I can’t explain now—it may be a long time—are you sure you can trust me if you don’t hear anything”

“Forever—if need be.”

“You darling! Now about the scarab business. Will you do as I advise you?”

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“Of course.”

“Then—then, dear, tell the exact truth—to everybody and in every particular. If you suspect I killed the lady, and if you are asked, say so. If the gloves are yours, say so. If you know anything about the scarab, tell it. Tell everything, but always tell it the same. This will be easy, if you tell the truth every time.”

“But—Tommy, they will arrest me”

“No, they won’t. Don’t be afraid of that. Shall I tell you why they are suspecting—or pretending to suspect you?”

“Why?”

“They don’t really think you are guilty, dear, but they think that by accusing you—they can get hold of me. They know I love you—I believe they knew it before I knew it myself!”

“Didn’t you know it the night of the party?”

“No! Hadn’t an idea of such a thing! It’s come on suddenly—and I’ve a bad attack!”

“Oh, Tommy—I want you!”

“Hush, dear—don’t talk like that—I can’t stand it. Pearl Jane, there’s much more to this whole dreadful business than you can imagine. Or than anyone else imagines. So, keep up a good heart, and—what did you promise to do?”

“Trust you, Tommy.”

“And do you?”

“Yes—until I see you—and after that—forever.”

“Sweetheart! Good-by.”

The voice ceased—and, in a sort of daze, Pearl Jane hung up her receiver.

What did it all mean? Where was Tommy? Why couldn’t he come to her? Unless—no, she knew—she knew he was not guilty. Her Tommy guilty?

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And then all thought of guilt or trouble was lost and forgotten in the blissful realization that he was her Tommy!

Was ever woman in this fashion wooed?

She wondered if any other girl in the world had ever had a proposal over the telephone. Doubtless such a thing had happened, but not like hers! She was sure that her experience was unique—and, at any rate, it made her very happy. Now, she must plan her life.

She must not be afraid of the police—Tommy had said so. She must stay right there in these same rooms—Tommy might telephone again.

But whether he did or didn’t, whether she heard from him again in a week or not for a year—she would always trust him.

For—he loved her! He had told her so. Oh—when she should see him—she’d take a sweet revenge for all this mystery!

And she was to tell the truth. This was a real relief, for Pearl Jane was not a very successful liar, and she was apt to forget and get her stories mixed up. But here after—Tommy said—she was to tell the truth—and she was not to fear.

Must she tell of this conversation with him?

That was a problem. But she fell asleep on the decision that she would tell the truth if asked—but if not, she had no intention of sharing her beautiful heart-secret with anybody just yet.

It was the next day that a man came to Andrew Barham’s house with a request that he might have an interview, if only a few moments.

Barham received him in his little library, curious to know if any news regarding the mystery might be forthcoming.

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“My name is Locke,” the caller said. “I’m the brother of the artist who has disappeared.”

“That’s very interesting,” Barham said, non-committally; “what can I do for you?”

“You can do this, Mr. Barham. You can use your influence to get the authorities to turn over to me any belongings or estate my brother had. I’m his only heir—but Tom lived so much to himself, and so quiet-like, I’ve no letters or such, to prove my claim. Now, if an influential man like yourself, sir, would just say a word to the police, they’d give me poor Tom’s clothes and furniture and suchlike. I don’t want anything they’d be likely to need for evidence—but I’m a poor man, sir, and I could do with a bit more. Especially when it belonged to my own brother.”

“So you’re Locke’s brother.” Barham looked at him appraisingly. “Are you older than he?”

“Only a year or so older. We were boys together.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Now, where did you live, as boys?”

“In Kansas City.”

“And your father’s name was?”

“John—John Locke. He was a minister, sir.”

“Oh, he was? Well, Mr. Locke, one more question. What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Hester—Hester Miller.”

“A Kansas City woman?”

“Yes sir.” The caller began to fidget a little under this direct catechism, and Andrew Barham smiled.

Then he said, “I think there’s some mistake, Mr.—er—Locke. Your brother cannot be the artist we are interested in. You see, the artist, Tommy Locke, was born in Massachusetts. His mother’s maiden name was Jeannette Fessenden, and his father was a fire-insurance agent. So

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Rh only be practised by infants taught to do so by their nurses, or by persons devoid of intellect?” What, we ask, must be the direct and legitimate influence of such a system on the intellect of its enthusiastic votaries, young and old? What can it be, except a resistless influence in depraving the reason and judgment—in crippling and degrading the cognitive powers—in paralysing the energies of original thought—in fettering or even crushing the spirit of inquiry—in contracting, if not wholly annihilating, the capacity of accurate discriminative discernment; in a word, in superinducing and perpetuating a state of hopeless childhood and mental imbecility?

And if such be the inevitable effect of the existing system of things on the intellect, still more disastrous is the influence which it exerts on the moral nature of the Hindu community.

In the existing circumstances of that community, there is not merely the absence of any principles fitted to elevate the moral character, but the positive presence of every principle fitted to destroy it. Think of the mantasmantras [sic] or popular formularies for inflicting damage or mortal injury on enemies. Think of the rites and ceremonies for obtaining success in invading the rights of property, and violating the sanctity of a neighbour’s home. Think of the promiscuousness with which persons of all sexes, with scarcely a covering, perform their ablutions in tanks and sacred streams. Think of the wanton and lascivious dances, constantly exhibited before the idols, with their fitting accompaniments of filthy and abominable songs. Think of the apathy, the hard-heartedness, the unfeeling disregard of human suffering produced by the distinctions of caste, the self-inflicted cruelties, and the brutal exposures of the sick and the dying. Think of the boundless license to all vice and crime afforded by the unseemly characters of the gods—the very objects of devotion and worship—whose unworthy exploits are perpetually rehearsed amid the excitement of festivity, music, and song; how they quarrelled with each other, kicked and abused each other, and, in their various social feuds and domestic scuffles, often bore away the most unmistakeable badges of their folly and shame, in the loss of an eye, a tooth, or a head; how, in their personal bearing and demeanour towards others, they were ever and anon guilty of the worst possible excesses—excesses of dishonesty and fraud, of lying and deceit, of intemperance and licentiousness, of ferocious cruelty and bloody revenge; in a word, how the popular gods of Hinduism, whose lives and actions are constantly imaged before the mental eye of their deluded votaries, are beings who seem to differ from the most depraved of the race of man only by their superiority


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 I will ask you to excuse me, and bid you a very good-day.”

Barham turned back to his desk and took up his pen.

“But, sir—” the man began, “won’t you please”

Barham turned back and looked at him. “I said good-day,” he reminded him, and with his penhandle, he pointed toward the door.

The man departed, and strange to say was never heard of again by Barham or the police either.

“Good game—but it didn’t work,” Andrew Barham advised himself.

Nick Nelson came in later.

“I’ve been trying to find that brother of Locke’s,” he said, “I thought I might get a line on the artist through him.

Barham laughed, the first time Nick had seen him laugh since the tragedy.

“You’ll probably never see him again,” he said, and then he related the incident as it happened.

“Why were you so sure he was an impostor?” Nelson asked.

“Oh, he had all the earmarks of the professional vulture. They run around to find people who die or disappear without relatives, and then they try to claim the property. Sometimes they get away with it, and sometimes they don’t.”

“What did you tell him all those other names for? Did you make them up?”

“Of course. I did it to prove myself right. If he had been Locke’s brother, don’t you suppose he would have insisted on his own genealogy? He made up his ancestors’ names, so I had an equal right to make up another set for the missing man.”

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“The police cottoned to him, because he had some gold teeth—and so has Tommy Locke,” said Nick.

“Absurd. We aren’t born with gold teeth in our mouths—I suppose heredity might make two brothers lose the same teeth—but, well if the police need him in their business, I’m sorry I sent him off.”

“No; I fancy they owe you a debt of gratitude. Another queer thing has turned up. You know that scarab?”

“Yes—I have seen it. Nothing very valuable.”

“No; so I’m told. But the little girl says it has been changed.”

“Changed—what do you mean?”

“She says the scarab Locke owned was a Royal scarab—from a King’s tomb. And, the one Hutchins has now, the girl says, is quite another stone.”

“Does the girl know about such things?”

“I don’t think she is a connoisseur at all, but she probably knows what Locke told her.”

“Ah, yes—what Locke told her. But, Nick, isn’t it conceivable that Locke described his treasure as being of a higher value than it really was? Can’t you see him, desiring to impress his artist friends, claiming a royal history for a scarab that was merely a poor commoner?”

“That’s easy, too. But the girl declares she knows that the one Hutchins has now—is not the one she gave him.”

“That girl seems bound to make trouble. What’s she like, Nick?”

“Lord, Andrew, I’ve described her to you half a dozen times. Like an Art Student—of course. Big eyes, bobbed hair, little turn-up nose, and a skin like a satin rose-leaf”

“Hold hard, Nick, you sound like an interested observer!”

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“No; I’m telling you the truth. You don’t see that sort of skin among our sort of women.”

“Could be, if they didn’t overdo the rouge pots.”

“No, it’s different. Healthier. Well, as for the rest, she’s a little thing—and she dresses in that studio style, but she gets away with it. And—she’s nobody’s fool.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“I mean she’s sensible and straightforward—though I believe if you’d know her well, she’s full of the devil—capers, I mean. She has a jolly little gleam in her eye”

“Well, considering you saw her only once, at the Inquest, you took her in rather completely.”

“Do quit fumbling in that desk drawer, Drew! What is the matter with you? Are you hunting for a letter or something?”

“No,” and Barham let go the papers, and pushed the drawer shut. “Go on, Nick. You’re here for something special. Out with it.”

“All right—out it is. The truth is, Drew, Hutchins thinks you exchanged those scarabs. He thinks when you took Locke’s into the other room to look it up in your book, that you substituted a less valuable stone.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Well, old chap, what do you think? Am I given to petty thievery? Would I be likely to steal a scarab from a poor artist—or from the police?”

“Of course not, Drew, don’t be silly. But I thought maybe you could help trace it. I think that somehow Locke has managed to get it back and he has made the substitution.”

“You’re sure there was a substitution?”

“It looks that way. The girl described minutely the design on Locke’s scarab—she says he did consider it his lucky piece—and the figures on the one Hutchins has now are quite dissimilar.”

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“My dear Nick, no one who hasn’t studied scarabs can tell one from another—least of all, a little bob-haired girl with a turn-up nose. Why not suspect the Chinaman. He had the job of finding the thing, I’m told. Say he found it, and—those Orientals are tricky, and they know about curios—say he made the substitution. How’s that?”

“I don’t think he has seen it?”

“But you don’t know that he hasn’t.”

“No. Oh, well, I dare say it’s the same old scarab. Also I guess they’ll arrest the little girl soon, and then there’ll be a sensation. Somehow I hate to see her arrested. A mere child”

“How can they arrest her? They’ve no real evidence.”

“They hold that they have. The Chinaman saw her bending over the body. He saw her take the scarab, which afterward was found hidden in her room. Also, the pair of stained gloves are her size. Also the bronze book-end has been photographed for finger prints—and it shows the prints of Miss Cutler’s fingers.”

“I don’t believe it!” Andrew Barham sat up straight, and spoke so strongly that Nelson looked at him curiously.

“Why, Drew, what’s the great excitement?”

“Only that I’m a champion of women—all women, as you know. And I think it’s outrageous to arrest that girl—almost a child, you tell me—for a crime of that sort!”

“Don’t say ‘of that sort’ for it’s just the sort of weapon a woman would use.”

“But why, why would that girl kill Maddy? Why—answer me that!”

“Good Lord, I can’t answer that! If I could, I’d have the whole problem solved. Will you stop fumbling in that

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 drawer? If you’ve lost a paper, hunt for it—do. But quit poking aimlessly about among the old documents.”

Again Barham slammed the drawer shut.

“There’s no reason why that girl could possibly have killed Madeleine, unless it was jealousy. Now, I hold she couldn’t have been jealous of my wife, for my wife had no knowledge of those people at all—she had no acquaintance down there.”

“To your knowledge.”

“To my knowledge, or outside it. I didn’t live with Madeleine all those years without knowing her whole mind—and she would never have chummed with those people—never!”

“Maybe she went down there with some of our own crowd—curiosity, you know. Maybe we can find out who went with her. Have you tried?”

“I’ve asked a few of the women—but they won’t tell—if they know, which I doubt.”

“Claudine would know.”

“I’ve asked her, but she gave me no real information.”

“Get her down here—now. I’ve a ghost of an idea that she knows more than she has told.”

The maid was sent for, and appeared, looking a little scared.

“Don’t be frightened, Claudine,” Barham said, kindly. He couldn’t bear to see any woman troubled.

“Just a few questions, Claudine,” Nelson began. “Tell us, briefly, all you know of Madame’s going to the masked ball.”

“I know almost nothing. She had her costume made—perhaps a week beforehand—not more.”

“It was done hastily, then?”

“Yes, Madame usually gave more time than that to her modiste.”

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“Then you think Mrs. Barham knew she was going fully a week before the party.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“And during that week she didn’t mention the party to you?”

“Not once. Nor to any one. Not to Madame Selden, nor to Madame Gardner, who was here once in my presence.”

“And she said nothing of it to Mr. Barham?”

“Not in my presence.”

“Then, now think very carefully, Claudine, you never heard her speak of it to any one—not over the telephone, even?”

“No”; but a telltale flush that reddened the maid’s cheeks aroused Nelson’s suspicions.

“Tell the truth,” he commanded, sternly. “You do know of some one”

“I will tell—it is perhaps my duty.”

“Yes, Claudine, tell what you know,” Barham assisted her.

“Well, then, the night of the Bal Masque—Madame Sayre came to see Madame, and they sent me from the room while they talked. I”

“Of course, Claudine, you listened,” Nelson said, in a matter-of-fact way. “Well, what did you hear?”

“It is not my habit to listen”

“Oh, no, of course not—we understand all that. Go on, now, and we’ll forgive your listening, if you tell exactly what you heard.”

“But I heard so little. Madame was very secret with her message, and Madame Sayre was equally careful. I heard almost nothing of their talk. But I did hear my Madame say to Madame Sayre that she was going to the Bal Masque and she did tell her where it was to be.”

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“And was Madame Sayre surprised?” Nelson asked.

“That I can’t say—I could hear so little. Indeed, I heard but few actual words, but I did hear Washington Square—of that I am sure.”

“But Madame Barham did not tell you she was going there?”

“No, Monsieur Nelson, she did not. I have told all.”

“You may go, Claudine,” and the maid left the room.

“All of no use, Nick,” Barham said, wearily. “I knew all that before, practically, from Rosamond Sayre herself. Maddy sent for her—to borrow some money. And Maddy brought influence to bear—or, at least, I suppose she did. Rose didn’t say that—but she did say that she promised to take the money to Maddy at Emmy Gardner’s that evening. They were both going there to play. Rosamond did go, and Maddy, of course, never showed up. So Claudine gave us no news. Can’t we drop the whole thing, Nick? I mean, can’t we get out of any active part in it? Of course, the police”

“Well, all right, Drew; but you asked me to help you look into these things. You asked me to help you find the murderer of your wife. You asked me to represent you in the matter, and use my judgment as to what should be done so far as we had any choice of procedure. I’ve done these things—I mean I’ve tried to do them. I’ve used all the means at my disposal to accede to your demands and now you’re”

“Well, I’m what?”

“I don’t know, exactly—but, you’re queer—that’s what you are—queer.”

“I dare say I am, Nick. Forgive me, old chap.”

And then Barham dropped his head into his hands and sat for a moment, looking so dejected and so despairing that Nelson was sorry for him.

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“No, forgive me, Drew. I know what awful burdens you have to bear.”

“Pshaw—I’m not whining. I have problems—but they must be faced. I can face them. What I’d like, would be to run away for a day or two and think things out by myself. How’d that be?”

“Well—” Nelson hesitated, “don’t go until after they’ve settled their minds about that scarab business. You don’t seem to realize, Drew, they really think you took a rare one and returned to Hutchins a much less valuable specimen.”

“Aren’t they coming to me with this tale? Aren’t they going to accuse me to my face?”

“Yes, I think they are. What shall you say?”

“What can I say, but the truth?”

“And that is?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you exchanged the scarabs.”

“Yes—I did.”

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was not an astute man—he was not even sharp-sighted when it came to puzzling things out, but he had unbounded faith in his friends and unflinching loyalty.

He accepted at its face value Barham’s statement that he had exchanged the scarabs. He didn’t question him concerning the matter, he only thought it over afterward and decided on his own line of action.

This was neither more nor less than to put the matter up to an expert. Nelson couldn’t understand Barham—very well, then somebody else should explain him.

From Nelson’s point of view this was no disloyalty or treachery to his friend, for, as he had reasoned it out, Barham was queer, and if people were queer they must be investigated.

His faith in Barham was so absolute that though he knew the man had exchanged a fine scarab for one of lesser value, he did not for a single instant believe this meant any dishonesty or real wrong-doing.

Had he been asked, he couldn’t have said what he did believe regarding the incident, but, he thought, there must be some logical and satisfactory explanation for old Bar ham’s deed. Maybe the fine scarab was his and had been stolen from him—well, that did seem a bit far-fetched—but, anyway, Drew Barham was all right—and if he was so foolish as to let himself be suspected of being wrong—then somebody must look after him.

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Nick Nelson had had previous experiences of Barham’s queerness, and invariably it had turned out that he was shielding or assisting somebody else. Anyway, it must be looked into by some one capable of looking into it. Drew was getting too queer.

And so, Nick Nelson went to the office of Lorimer Lane and enlisted the sympathies and then engaged the services of that clever and well known detective.

“Use your own judgment,” Nelson told him, “about letting Mr. Barham know you are in the game. If you think best, be frank with him—but if it seems more advisable, then just let him think you’re on the police side of the case.”

“Are there two sides?” Lane asked. “I’ve only the newspaper accounts to guide me, you know.”

“Not two opposing sides,” Nelson told him, “but of course the police are trying to solve the mystery of Mrs. Barham’s death and of Locke’s disappearance, while Mr. Barham—lately, at any rate—is trying to hush up the whole affair. Now, the police are interested in his scarab business—that I’ve just told you about, and they think Mr. Barham is a thief. I know better—I know that he changed these things for some good and sufficient reason”

“Can you suggest or imagine any good and sufficient reason?”

Lorimer Lane was not scoffing at Nelson’s assumption, on the contrary, he was seriously interested.

Middle-aged, reserved and rather taciturn, he was glad to take hold of this strange case, and this new turn of Barham’s regarding the scarabs was both astonishing and intriguing.

“No, I can’t—” Nelson confessed, “that’s why I have come to you. I know Andrew Barham as well as I know

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text:
Module:WD version

require('strict')

local p = {}

local getArgs = require('Module:Arguments').getArgs local yesno = require('Module:Yesno') local small_scan_link = require('Module:Small scan link')._small_scan_link local WikidataIB = require('Module:WikidataIB')

local function getWDLink(args) return WikidataIB.getLink({['args'] = args}) end

local function getWDLabel(args) return WikidataIB.getLink({['args'] = args}) end

function p.WDStatement(args) local item = args.item if not item then return nil end local prop = args.prop local formattedStatement if args.getLink then local unsorted_statements = item:getBestStatements(prop) local statements = {} for k, v in pairs(unsorted_statements) do			if v.rank == 'preferred' then table.insert(statements, v)			end end for k, v in pairs(unsorted_statements) do			if v.rank == 'normal' then table.insert(statements, v)			end end -- mw.logObject('statements:') -- mw.logObject(statements) local statementLinks = {} for k, statement in pairs(statements) do			if statement['mainsnak']['datatype'] == 'wikibase-item' and statement.mainsnak.datavalue and statement.mainsnak.datavalue.value and statement.mainsnak.datavalue.value.id then local statementLink = getWDLink({statement.mainsnak.datavalue.value.id}) if statementLink and statementLink ~= '' then table.insert(statementLinks, statementLink) end else local statementValue = mw.wikibase.formatValue(statement.mainsnak) if statementValue and statementValue ~= '' then table.insert(statementLinks, statementValue) end end end -- mw.logObject(statementLinks) -- mw.logObject(#statementLinks) if #statementLinks == 1 then -- mw.logObject('#statementLinks = 1') formattedStatement = statementLinks[1] elseif #statementLinks > 1 then -- mw.logObject('#statementLinks > 1') formattedStatement = table.concat(statementLinks, ', ', 1, #statementLinks - 1) .. ' and ' .. statementLinks[#statementLinks] end end if not formattedStatement or formattedStatement == '' then -- mw.logObject('not formattedStatement') formattedStatement = item:formatPropertyValues(prop).value end -- mw.logObject(formattedStatement) if formattedStatement and formattedStatement ~= '' then return (args.prefix or '') .. formattedStatement .. (args.suffix or '') else return nil end end

function p._WD_version(args) local wikidata_id = args[1] --mw.logObject(wikidata_id) local item = mw.wikibase.getEntity(wikidata_id) --mw.logObject(item) if not item then return nil end local version_info = {} version_info.link = getWDLink({wikidata_id}) version_info.author = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P50',		['prefix'] = ' by ',		['getLink'] = true	}) version_info.translator = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P655',		['prefix'] = ', translated by ',		['getLink'] = true	}) version_info.editor = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P98',		['prefix'] = ', edited by ',		['getLink'] = true	}) version_info.illustrator = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P110',		['prefix'] = ', illustrated by ',		['getLink'] = true	}) version_info.published = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P1433',		['prefix'] = ", in ",		['suffix'] = "",		['getLink'] = true	}) version_info.pubdate = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = item,		['prop'] = 'P577',		['prefix'] = ' (', ['suffix'] = ')'	}) if version_info.link and not yesno(args.useitalics or false) and (version_info.published or yesno(args.usequotes or false)) then version_info.link = '"' .. version_info.link .. '"' else version_info.link = "''" .. version_info.link .. "''"	end local scan local scan_item = mw.wikibase.getEntity(args[2] or wikidata_id) scan = p.WDStatement({		['item'] = scan_item,		['prop'] = 'P996'	}) if not scan and scan_item ~= item then scan = p.WDStatement({			['item'] = item,			['prop'] = 'P996'		}) end -- mw.logObject(scan) if scan then version_info.scanlink = ' ' .. small_scan_link({scan}) end local version_text = {} local version_keys = {'link', 'author', 'translator', 'editor', 'illustrator', 'published', 'pubdate', 'scanlink'} for i = 1, #version_keys do		local v = version_keys[i] if version_info[v] and not yesno(args['no' .. v] or false) then table.insert(version_text, version_info[v]) end end return table.concat(version_text) end

function p.WD_version(frame) return p._WD_version(getArgs(frame)) end

return p

title: Module:WD version


text:
Page:More lives than one.djvu/213

 any man on earth, and I know him to be incapable of dishonesty in any form. Yet, I know when he told me he exchanged those scarabs, he did exchange them. Now, I want you to find out why.”

“On the face of it,” Lane said, “it looks very much as if he were shielding somebody at his own expense—that is, if you are right in banking so securely on his honesty.”

“Oh, I’m right in that,” Nick returned.

“Very well, I’ll take up the matter. Now, Mr. Nelson, tell me everything you know about it. Everything you can possibly think of that has any connection with it.”

And Nick Nelson spent the better part of two hours, detailing all he knew, both from the police reports and from his personal knowledge of the Barhams and their friends and acquaintances.

Lane was especially interested in anything concerning Tommy Locke—perhaps because it was regarding that elusive gentleman that Nelson’s information was the least definite.

“He seems a harmless sort,” Nick said; “not at all the kind of man you think of as a murderer. A mediocre artist, a good pal, a quiet sort of person generally. His servant adores him, his friends all like him, and the little girl, who is supposed to be his sweetheart, is desperately in love with him.”

“She’ll be a mine of information, then,” Lane observed. “I’m good at getting at the sweethearts.”

“She’s not so easy, though. For a young thing, and a demure, innocent looking person, she has a lot of reserve force of character that crops out unexpectedly. I don’t know her personally, you understand, though I’ve seen her, but Detective Hutchins has told me a lot about her. Sometimes I believe he thinks she’s mixed up in the actual crime, and then again, I feel sure he’s only pretending to

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 do so, by way of urging Locke to put in an appearance to protect the girl.”

“If Locke knows all that is going on, and doesn’t come forward to look after his sweetheart, he’s a poor sort of chap.”

“I think he’s in communication with her, somehow. But she’s so uncommunicative, it’s hard to tell.”

“I’ll find out where she stands,” and Lane nodded his head in assurance. “The hardest proposition to tackle is Andrew Barham himself. From your description of him I fancy he can hold his own against a detective’s questioning.”

“Yes, he can. But if he takes a notion to confide in you—and I don’t see why he shouldn’t”

“What does he think of Locke?” Lane interrupted.

“He doesn’t express any definite opinion. His one question is, how did his wife happen to go to Locke’s studio. And, I must say we’re no nearer finding that out than we were the night of the murder.”

“The whole thing is so bizarre, the whole case so incredible that it ought to be easy,” the detective said.

“Easy?”

“Yes; the more strange and unusual the circumstances, the easier it is, usually, to ferret out their meaning. Well, I’ll go ahead in my own way, and I’ll report to you, Mr. Nelson. As to my attitude toward Mr. Barham, I shall be guided by circumstances, and by developments as they appear. There’ll be no trouble or rivalry between me and the police. I’ll promise you that. I know Hutchins—and he’ll be friendly with me.”

And so Lorimer Lane took up the Barham case. He laid aside some other matters, in order to give it his

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 full attention, for to his mind it promised to be one of the most interesting problems he had ever tackled.

As a preliminary measure, he visited the studio apartment of Locke.

Glenn was still there on guard, and though he was interested in seeing the new detective he had little confidence that his powers were superior to those of Hutchins and his assistants.

“I’ll just go over the place,” and Lane nodded affably to Glenn and went off by himself.

He noted every bit of furniture and decoration in the studio with critical intentness, now and then making a brief note of something and again, merely nodding in satisfaction at finding something indicative.

On entering Locke’s bedroom, he closed the door, and spent a long time in his examinations. The bathroom, too, claimed his absorbed attention, and when he found on the glass shelf above the washstand a small bottle of powdered pumice stone, he chuckled with satisfaction.

“I am on the right track!” he told himself. “Oh, what a case!”

Next he scanned the smoking-room—and studied carefully the spot where the victim had open found.

The police had forbidden any meddling there, and Lane noted carefully every sign he could find. There was little, however, that seemed to mean anything, but he viewed with interest the white line along the rug, which the police had concluded was powder from the vanity-case also discovered near by.

“But it isn’t!” Lane said to himself. “Powder would be sprinkled grains—or else a soft, wide smear. This is a sharp, clean line—it’s, well, I don’t know what it is—but I have a pretty fair idea!”

On he went, poking into closets and cupboards, opening

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 drawers and looking behind doors, until he was absolutely familiar with everything in the place.

“Any light on the dark subject?” Glenn asked, as the detective reappeared.

“Not much so far—but a glimmer here and there. And I’m sure I have the right starting-point. Where’s the Chinaman?”

“In the pantry. Want him?”

“I’ll go there,” and Lane appeared before Charley.

He wasted no time on unimportant questions, but said, abruptly, “When have you heard from Mr. Locke?”

“No more hear. He gone good-by,” said the Chinaman.

“You are all paid up?”

“All and some more.”

“All bills paid?”

“All.”

“And on the first of the month you leave?”

“I leave.”

“And Mr. Locke told you over the telephone that you would never see or hear from him again?”

“Yes, he tell so.”

“All right, Charley, that’s all.”

Still with that satisfied expression on his face, Lorimer Lane started off to call on Miss Cutler.

He was by no means sure what course he should pursue with this somewhat remarkable young woman. From what he had heard of her, he didn’t think she could be easily intimidated—perhaps it would be wisest to treat her as a confidante.

But he had great faith in his own intuitions and concluded he would be guided by them when they should meet.

Pearl Jane met him as one might receive a casual caller, and Lane concluded at once that he must step carefully if he would make good with this self-possessed young person.

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She asked him to be seated, and then sat down herself, with a demurely expectant face.

“You want to question me?” she said.

“If you please,” Lane returned courteously. “And, Miss Cutler, do not look on me as a prying inquisitor.”

“Not at all—why should I?” she returned, her big violet eyes expressing the most innocent surprise.

Lane was disconcerted. He hated to acknowledge it to himself, but he was bothered by those eyes. Either the girl was absolutely in the dark concerning the mystery he was trying to solve, or she knew more than any one else. He was not sure which.

He resolved on a bold stroke.

“Miss Cutler,” he said, bending forward and speaking in a low tone, “do you know Mr. Locke’s secret?”

At least he had got under her guard.

“His secret!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know he had one! Oh, you mean do I know where he is?”

“No; I don’t mean that at all. I mean do you know what he is—who he is?”

“I know Mr. Locke for a good friend, an artist, and an honorable gentleman. If you mean do I know his family or his antecedents—I do not. There was a man who claimed to be his brother—but I believe the police discredited his story.”

She was again in command of herself—but Lane was sure that his sudden question had disturbed her. He was sure that she did know that Locke had a secret—a big one—and he was equally sure that she was as ignorant of what it was as he was himself—perhaps more so.

He concluded that the way to manage her was by sudden surprising questions or statements, and he watched her closely as he said: “You call him an honorable man, and yet you suspect him of the murder of Mrs. Barham!”

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The shot told. Pearl Jane went white, and her hands clenched as she struggled to preserve her composure.

She thought quickly but steadily. Her brain was clear, though her nerves were jumping. But she had one fixed principle to follow. Tommy had told her to tell the truth. He had emphasized that. So she did.

She parried only a moment. “Is that a statement or a question?” she said.

Lane stared at her. She certainly was surprising.

“I’ll make it a question,” he said; “do you think Mr. Locke killed Mrs. Barham?”

“It’s hard to answer,” she said, with a thoughtful look. “I can’t think it—and yet—yes, I do suspect him.”

“And you still deem him an honorable man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do honorable men commit murder?”

“That question I can’t answer. I dare say they have done so.”

“Well, Miss Cutler, this talk gets us nowhere. Now, for facts. What makes you suspect Mr. Locke?”

“Only because I saw him go downstairs and out of his front door. Then, when I immediately afterward went up the back stairs, I saw the body of Mrs. Barham there on the floor.”

“And so you concluded Mr. Locke had killed her?”

“I don’t say I concluded that. I say I suspected it.”

“Why should he kill her?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“You’re sure you didn’t kill her yourself?”

Pearl Jane allowed herself the slightest glimmer of a smile, as she replied: “I’m positive of that.”

“Well you ought to know. And you still love and respect Mr. Locke, even if he is a murderer?”

“Oh, he isn’t that.”

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text:
Module:Small scan link/doc

Implements small scan link.

title: Module:Small scan link/doc


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“You contradict yourself”

“I don’t care if I do. I tell the truth. The truth may be contradictory. You see—circumstances make me suspect Mr. Locke with my mind—but”

“But your heart tells you he’s innocent!”

“Yes—exactly that!” and the girl’s smile was like a heavenly illumination. It transformed her from merely a pretty child into a woman of exquisite beauty and charm.

Lorimer Lane stared at her.

“I’ve never seen any one quite like you, Miss Cutler,” he said, slowly. “Permit me to offer you my sincere admiration and appreciation.”

And now Pearl Jane stared at him. Her smile faded, she looked haughty and resentful.

But as she realized that Lane was really sincere, she smiled at him and with him, and in that moment their friendship was sealed.

“Remember,” he said, “I told you at the start, that I want to be friendly. Now, if you will help me, and if you will continue to be truthful, I’ve an idea that we can clear your Mr. Locke from the suspicion of murder, whatever other crime he may be guilty of.”

“Of course,” she said, assuredly, “and he isn’t guilty of any crime.”

“Not crime, perhaps—but”

Lane hesitated, but his scrutiny of the young face gave no answering appreciation of the thought he had in mind, and he concluded she did not share his suspicions.

He went away, well satisfied with the interview, and especially well satisfied with Pearl Jane.

“She’s a hummer!” he said to himself, “and I hope to goodness I can get her Tommy back for her. If he’s all I think him, they will some day be a happy couple!”

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And Lorimer Lane might have felt his opinion verified if he could have heard a conversation that ensued soon after his departure.

It was over the telephone, and Pearl Jane held the receiver at one end.

At the other end was a man, who said a joyful “Yes!” in response to her query, “Is that you, Tommy?”

“Can we have a long talk?” Pearl Jane asked.

“No, dear, I can only say a few words to you. Things are happening and I don’t know what the future holds. Tell me this, my little girl—can you keep faith and trust in me whatever happens?”

“Yes, Tommy, whatever happens.”

“But what happens may surprise you beyond all bounds.”

“My faith and trust are beyond all bounds.”

“Bless you, dear heart. Yet what you learn may cause you to despise me”

“No—not that. If you love me—if you want me—I am your Pearl Jane forever—whether we ever meet again or not.”

“All right, sweetheart, then, remember this. When you hear—as you may, the most astonishing news—remember that I love you, I—I love you!”

“Why do you emphasize the I? There is no one in the world for me, but the man you call I. My Tommy—my own Tommy Locke.”

“Yes—Pearl Jane—your own Tommy Locke. Good-by, sweetheart, I daren’t stay longer. Trust me through all mysteries, and some day we can be happy together.

“Really, Tommy?”

“Really, dear. Good-by.

Pearl Jane was bewildered, but happy. Tommy was in explicable, but she knew—she knew he was no murderer,

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 or criminal of any sort. He was her Tommy, and some day they would be happy together. He had said so, and that was enough for Pearl Jane.

It was the next day before Lane obtained an interview with Andrew Barham.

He had waited on that gentleman’s convenience, and when he was finally admitted to his presence the detective looked covertly at the man whose acquaintance he was about to make.

“You wished to see me?” Barham said, courteously. “On what errand?”

And suddenly, Lane made up his mind.

“Regarding the mystery of your wife’s death,” he said, frankly. “I wish to take up the case, and solve it, if possible. I should be glad to know your attitude toward me—or toward my work.”

“Mr. Lane,” and Barham looked very grave, “I suppose it is right and just that the mystery of my wife’s death should be solved. But—I want to say, that I, personally, would greatly prefer to have the whole matter dropped. I should prefer never to know the truth of the case, rather than have certain painful revelations made, that must be made if the whole story comes out.”

“You refer, Mr. Barham, to your wife’s unfortunate losses at Bridge?”

“And her consequent wrong-doing in connection therewith,” said Andrew Barham, looking at Lane unflinchingly; “and not only that phase of the matter, but other equally distressing circumstances. These things would redound to the grief and pain of my wife’s mother, an elderly lady, and also to the disparagement, even disgrace of my wife’s memory. I hold that the only good done by a solution of the mystery of her death would be

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 the punishment of the murderer. While we all feel that such a crime should be avenged, I, myself, would rather never know the truth, than to expose all.”

“I understand and appreciate, Mr. Barham, your attitude, but I cannot look at it as you do. Moreover, the police are not willing to look at it in that light, either. Now, I must tell you, that I propose to go on with my investigations, and I will say right now, if you have any confession to make, or explanations to give, I should be glad to hear them. I am not antagonistic: on the contrary, I want to meet your wishes in so far as I can, but”

“Mr. Lane—I may as well say that I know who sent you here. I know whose doing it is that you have taken up this case. It is at the request of my dear friend, Mr. Nelson. He is doing it out of the best of motives—he thinks I am sacrificing myself for some one else.”

“And aren’t you?”

Andrew Barham smiled.

“Not exactly,” he said. “And yet,” he looked very grave, “if you delve too deeply into this matter, if you try too hard to discover the murderer of my wife—it will make”

He stopped abruptly, and seemed to draw back into himself as into a shell.

“I would rather say no more, Mr. Lane. If you want to question me I am quite prepared to answer.”

“Then, Mr. Barham, did you or did you not exchange the scarab that Mr. Hutchins showed you for another and less valuable one?”

“I did, Mr. Lane.”

“Will you tell me why you did that?”

“Because the valuable scarab was my own property, and I desired to have it again in my possession.”

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“It was stolen from you, then?”

“No, not stolen—it was taken by some one who meant well.”

“It was taken,” Lane looked at Barham, steadily, “by Miss Cutler from the hand of your dead wife?”

“Yes,” said Andrew Barham.

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text:
Module:WD version/doc

Implements WD version, WD author, WD translator, WD editor, WD illustrator.

title: Module:WD version/doc


text:
Page:The Pima Indians.pdf/101

96 Arrows. The arrows of the Pimas are made from the straight stem of the arrow bush. The Kwahadkʽs and Papagos sometimes sold arrows of yucca stem to the Gileños, but these were scarcely equal in quality to those made of wood. The hunting arrows (pl., c) have two split feathers, two hand's breadths in length. War arrows have three feathers, less than half as long and slightly curved. All arrow shafts are measured and cut the length from tip of forefinger to nipple of breast of the maker. Both bows and arrows are sometimes stained with the blood of the jack rabbit, and war arrows may be dyed at the ends with the cochineal which makes its home on the Opuntias. The quiver is made of wild-cat skin (pl., d).

War club. The club was of scarcely less importance than the bow, and it was customary for a portion of each band of warriors to fight with shield and club alone.

Lance. A short sharpened stick was sometimes used by the Pimas, who adopted it from the Yumas and Maricopas after the Spaniards supplied steel heads for the weapon. The sticks were colored red with mineral paint.

title: Page:The Pima Indians.pdf/101


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Page:Samuel Gompers - Out of Their Own Mouths (1921).djvu/218

 192 leaders. This was a logical step in pursuance of the Orleans Congress of the C. G. T. Congress in September, 1920, which issued a declaration of independence as against all outside political control. Merrheim, Secretary of France's leading union, the Metal Workers, at this congress denounced the Soviet Government and described Lenin as "a sanguinary megalomaniac and a pitiless tyrant, the greatest menace to the Russian revolution." When the Bolshevists yelled in protest Merrheim replied that these were the very words used only a few years before by the Franco-Russian, Rappoport, now one of the French Bolshevist leaders. Bartuel, Secretary of the next largest union, the Miners, who has also been sustained in a recent congress of his union, describes Bolshevism as a militaristic and reactionary movement worse than capitalism.

At the French Socialist Congress at Tours in December, 1920, at which the revolutionary majority accepted Lenin as Czar and changed the name of the organization to Communist Party, the minority (itself Marxian and revolutionary) showed that the French General Strike of May 1st, 1920, engineered and subsidized by the Russian Bolshevists, had almost destroyed the organized labor of France.

M. Faure presented to the delegates figures showing material decreases of the membership in the union syndicates of the Seine and of the French Confederation of Labor. The Confederation membership has decreased from 1,500,000 to 600,000, he declared, while that of the Seine syndicates has decreased from 292,000 to 140,000. He asserted this decrease was due to the extremist element, and that the party would suffer further losses if the revolutionary spirit of Moscow prevailed.


text:
Page:Calcutta Review Vol. II (Oct. - Dec. 1844).pdf/374

Rh what triumphs, in the arts and sciences! What gigantic strides in the mastery of mind over nature’s elements! What a shadowing of omnipotence in the power by which all are made tributary to the augmented comforts and enhanced enjoyments of man! But this is not all. The apex of the British social pyramid, with its clustering pinnacles, does not sparkle with the brilliancy of a cultured intellectualism only; for then might it merely exemplify and realise the garnishing of a corpse or the whitening of a sepulchre. No, there are—thanks to a gracious over-ruling Providence—thousands and tens of thousands that are morally and spiritually good, as well as intellectually enlightened. These, from higher, nobler, and more constraining motives than the children of this world ever knew, strive immeasurably to outstrip the latter, even in the chosen sphere of their own favourite earthborn moralities. As they name the name of Jesus, they feel themselves under solemn oath and covenant to depart from all iniquity—to be holy as He is holy—to refrain from all those fleshly lusts and carnal desires by which men’s lives are polluted and their religion defiled, from all riotous and luxurious excesses, from all covetousness and usury, from all extortion and oppression, from all envy and jealousy, from all hatred and malice, from all pride and arrogancy, from all ambition and vain glory, from all slander and backbiting, from all enmity, and strife, anand [sic] uncharitableness. From the same high and holy motives thedthey [sic] feel themselves also bound positively to cultivate all the personal virtues, all the social and domestic charities; that tenderness which awakens sympathy; that gentleness which wins on the affections; that generosity which excites the sense of gratitude; that benevolence which stimulates affectionate regard; that unflinching integrity which is greeted with salutations in the haunts of business, and unbending fidelity, with the tribute of warmest acknowledgments, and open-handed liberality, with the heart-felt responses of the poor, the needy, and the fatherless; and unalterable friendship, with the enthusiasm of quickened sensibility; and untainted honour, with the generous approbation of high-minded men; and devoted patriotism, with the enkindled ecstasies of a benefited people. And, above and beyond all those virtues and moralities, which may not have their roots deeper than in the more generous impulses of unrenewed nature, or the more prudential maxims of a wisely-regulated self-love, and which, consequently, may never raise their heads, or exhale their perfume beyond the unsettled region of this earthly atmosphere; these feel themselves additionally bound, by every obligation, the most sacred and divine, to cultivate those purely evangelical tempers and graces, the roots of


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Page:More lives than one.djvu/224

, Mr. Nelson, I’ve solved part of the mystery, at any rate,” said Lorimer Lane, as he went to make his first formal report to Nick Nelson. “I’m afraid you’ll be sorry rather than otherwise, but the disclosure was bound to come.”

“I may be sorry I called you in at all,” Nelson responded, gloomily. “My friend Mr. Barham is not pleased at my bringing you into the matter.”

“I knew it, and I am not surprised. You see, his secret was safe, until my advent. Without undue conceit, I may say I feel sure the police would never have discovered it.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s simply this. The missing artist Thomas Locke can never be found—for the simple reason that there is no such person.”

Nelson stared at the detective.

“Explain, please,” he said briefly.

“I will. The artist, Locke, and your friend, Mr. Andrew Barham, are one and the same person.”

“Oh, now, Mr. Lane, that’s a little too much. I can’t take it in.”

“Take it slowly. I shouldn’t make the statement unless I knew it to be true. If you will think it over as I detail my arguments, I am sure you’ll be convinced.”

“Go ahead.”

“To begin with, it would be practically impossible for a man to disappear so utterly off the face of the earth,

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 as Locke seems to have done. With a large reward offered for his apprehension, no man could hide his personality so long and so cleverly and escape all discovery or detection. But, aside from that, I have proved my case to my own satisfaction, as I am sure I can prove it to yours.”

“I’m trying to grasp it. But, before anything else, why would Andrew Barham cut up any such trick as that? Why?”

“I will tell you. I may as well tell you that first. I have studied Mr. Barham for three days now—I have inquired among his friends and acquaintances—in a roundabout way—I have interviewed his servants and I have even talked with his mother-in-law. A most surprisingly unpleasant old lady.”

“And you learned?”

“I learned that for some reason, Andrew Barham chose to lead a double life. He was part of the time a resident of Fifth Avenue and a society man. Also, part of the time, he was Thomas Locke, artist, of Washington Square.”

“Have you taxed him with this?”

“I have not. I am employed by you—so I come to you with my findings. If you say so, my discovery shall go no further.”

“I don’t know what to say—I am too amazed for words. If any lesser detective than yourself told me this thing I should scoff at it. But I know your reputation, I know your prowess, and I feel I must believe you—at least I must believe that you believe this thing yourself.”

“I know it. As to the more positive bits of evidence, let me call to your mind the wig, left behind in the mid-night scramble with the policeman. Mr. Barham, of course, pursued his career as Locke, in disguise. He couldn’t have managed it any other way. His disguise

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 Rh The most recent delegation to Moscow was that of the Spanish Socialists. Upon his return to Spain, Rois, one of the two delegates, a member of the last Spanish Parliament, reported as follows:


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 was not elaborate but it was effective. It consisted only of the well-made and perfectly fitting wig of long black hair, the large and heavy-rimmed glasses and two gold caps for his eye teeth. With these he was sufficiently changed in appearance for his purpose.”

“Those things couldn’t really disguise him.”

“Not from you or from any one who knew him. But he didn’t need that. All he wanted was a different personality for the artist that should in no way resemble the real Andrew Barham. He never expected to meet the same people in his two separate walks of life. And so, he went his way in his Fifth Avenue surroundings, and occasionally, when he chose, he went away, down to Washington Square for a day or two. His frequent absences from the studio, and also, from his Barham home, are thus explained.”

“I can’t take it in. Hid his wife know of this?”

“Most certainly not. No one knew it. But, to my mind, it was a suspicion of it that made Mrs. Barham go down there that night to find out.”

“Mr. Lane, I don’t believe a word of all this! I can’t believe it! You are carried away with it all as a theory, and you are trying to make things prove up. But it’s too preposterous—too incredible”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Nelson, how about this? In Mr. Barham’s desk drawer, the one at his right hand, as he usually sits, I found concealed under some papers, the small picture of Miss Cutler that disappeared from the studio that night of the reappearance of Locke.”

And then Nick Nelson remembered how Barham had continually fumbled in that drawer on certain occasions when Nelson had been there. Was the man in love with Pearl Jane? Was he really Locke? Nelson’s brain seemed to spin around.

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“This won’t do,” he said after a moment. “I can’t take the responsibility of your disclosures. Come with me at once to Andrew Barham. We will lay all our cards on the table. If he has done this thing—he will tell me so. I know Barham.”

And so the detective and the man who had employed him went together to Barham’s office.

He received them gravely, seeming to know their errand.

He took them to his private office, and at once opened the subject himself.

“My secret is a secret no longer,” he said, and looked at Nelson with a strange, almost wistful smile.

“Tell me it isn’t so, Drew,” Nelson cried; “tell me you never did such a thing!”

“As what?”

“As to pretend to be Locke—and all that!”

“Is it so terrible?” Barham looked thoughtful. “Yes, I am Locke, as I see Mr. Lane has already discovered. Do you want to hear the story, Nick?”

“Indeed I do.”

“It isn’t a unique one, I daresay.” Barham still had that far-away look in his eyes and an absorbed expression on his face.

But he told his story with dignity and with a fine faith in Nelson’s ability and willingness to understand.

“You know, Nick, that Maddy and I were never congenial in our tastes or in our selection of companions. I couldn’t bear that crowd that she enjoyed so much, and she never liked the quieter people I preferred.

“I honestly tried to adapt my preferences to hers, and to bring about a state of affairs whereby we could be more congenial, but she wouldn’t make any concessions. I’m not blaming her, you understand, but—well, I suppose the

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 main trouble was that I couldn’t play Bridge—that is, not as her cronies played it. Nor did I want to. I have none of the gambling instinct, none of the craving for that sort of excitement. Maddy had.

“The result was, we drifted more and more apart. I used to take her to the card parties and go for her when they were over—but they kept up so late, and it irked her to have me waiting for her—well, never mind all that. I became bored and restless because almost every night I was left alone to amuse myself—or, to enjoy the company of Mrs. Selden. I went to the clubs a lot, of course, but they didn’t give me what I wanted. I longed for an interest in life, a few congenial spirits, and most of all I wanted to follow up a taste for painting that I had as a younger man.

“I tried it at home, but Maddy objected to the smell of paint in the house, so I concluded to set up a studio. I had no thought, at first, of what came about afterward—but one night I went to a masquerade with Madeleine. I wore that long haired wig, which so became me and looked so natural on me—that after a while some such idea as I finally carried out began to take shape in my brain. I mulled over it a year before I decided to try it, and then—after a desperate attempt to persuade Maddy to give me at least part of her time, and failing, I set up my studio.

“The disguise and the double life were partly to be free from intrusion and interruption—to have a sort of haven and sanctuary all to myself—and partly, out of a spirit of bravado. If Maddy could lead her life—I could lead mine, I argued. I wasn’t so very keen about keeping it secret—indeed, if my wife had discovered it I was in no way ashamed of it.

“But, as time went on, I found I was changing. I was becoming more and more Tommy Locke and less

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 and less Andrew Barham. I began to realize that I had gone farther than I intended—that I had burned bridges behind me that I never could rebuild. Time and again I tried to give up that other life—tried to resolve to close up the studio and never go back to it. I kept things arranged that way—there was always money enough in Charley’s possession to pay all bills and settle up all claims, if I could conclude to give up the other life I led.

“But I couldn’t do it. Always I would drift back there again.”

“But how, Drew, how could you work it? Why were you never discovered—or suspected.”

“It was easy,” Barham said. “I had so many out of town engagements in connection with my business that no one at home was surprised at my absence for several days at a time. And, at the other end, no one ever thought of questioning my goings or comings. It was really all very innocent and decent. I had good friends—no intimates, and no”

“You are sure you want me to hear all this revelation, Mr. Barham?” Lane asked, noting the confidences that were evidently meant for Nelson.

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Lane. Yes—I think I’d rather you understood the whole situation. That’s about all, anyway. The disguise became second nature to me. I could achieve it in a moment or two. Many a time I have left the house in Fifth Avenue, ostensibly for a trip to Chicago or St. Louis. In my bag I had my wig, glasses, collar and tie, and a few such things. I would take a taxi from the station, whither my own chauffeur had driven me, and in it I would make the change in my appearance. The taxi driver rarely noticed it—if he did a five dollar bill closed his mouth. I would get out a few blocks from the studio and walk to it. I cannot tell you how I enjoyed

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 the rest and freedom from my distressing home life—yes, I may as well admit it was distressing. Madeleine grew continually harder to live with, and Mrs. Selden was always a thorn in my flesh. I would not make these disclosures, Nick, but I must make you understand.”

“I do understand, Andrew, and I want you to know it!”

Nelson impulsively reached over and grasped his friend’s hand.

Lorimer Lane, too, showed appreciation and understanding, but he was eagerly awaiting the rest of the story. His leaping mind had already jumped to the last chapter.

“But,” Barham resumed, “there never was a truer word than Oscar Wilde wrote in his ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.’

“I have proved that over and over again. I have lived a double life, it is true, and I have paid for it by dying a thousand deaths in my conscience. I have suffered remorse untold—I have so loathed myself at times that I would willingly have died in earnest to get out of it all. And then—the urge would be so strong, the desire for that little home, those few good friends—that I would go back there in spite of myself.”

“And I don’t blame you!” cried Nelson. “It was no crime, Drew. Many a man lives a double life of far more ignominy and shame.”

“There was no ignominy, no shame,” said Barham, gravely, “but it was deceit—and I am not naturally a deceitful man. I could look at it all calmly and dispassionately while I was down at the studio, but whe

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