text:
User talk:SDudley

Beeswaxcandle (talk) 23:45, 20 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Thank you! I've been on and off wanting to get more involved here over the last year. I think what I have learned is I enjoy the proofreading part of the books versus the transcribing. And since there is need for that too, I am more than glad to share it. I appreciate you welcoming me here.--SDudley (talk) 23:49, 20 January 2024 (UTC)

Hey!
I'm so glad you came over to our community from Commons. I hope you stick around!

I noticed that silent films seem to be a long-standing interest area of yours at Commons, and I just wanted to let you know that there are many movies waiting to be transcribed. Please consider joining WikiProject Film if you'd like to contribute to that project. I'd be happy to teach you about our current draft process for films, to make it easier to work on them.

Again, let me know if you need anything, for films or just in general. And welcome! SnowyCinema (talk) 15:30, 29 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Portal:Oswald the Lucky Rabbit is an ongoing project! SnowyCinema (talk) 15:41, 29 January 2024 (UTC)
 * That sounds cool! I'm wrapping up work on Index:The House at Pooh Corner (1961).pdf and then I think I will be more open to learning about that project. Hoping to get it done this week. We just have a few more images to include and then validate. I think the film project would be useful for learning more about formatting on Wikisource so I can get more into transcription. SDudley (talk) 15:46, 29 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Awesome! I'm glad Pooh Corner is being worked on, because I read those Winnie-the-Pooh books with my family, via the Wikisource transcriptions. In the meanwhile, I'll leave you with Category:Film, which contains every film we currently have. Category:Pre-Code films is going to be the "star of the show" in this sound-transitionary period of 2024–2029. (: SnowyCinema (talk) 15:59, 29 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Good morning! Seems we wrapped up House At Pooh Corner sooner than I thought. Ready to hear more about the projects at hand, especially the Oswald project. I'm also looking forward to the years of Pre-Code that are on the way. SDudley (talk) 14:08, 30 January 2024 (UTC)

 * Hi, here's a video tutorial I recorded just today for film transcriptions (something I've been meaning to do for years). And the video is coming to Commons as well as soon as the webm conversion is done. I hope the video's helpful, because I've never made a tutorial before.
 * The gist of it is, we do film transcription at WikiProject Film/Drafts, because of current limitations in ProofreadPage's technology specifically for movies. You can work on any movie we don't currently have. If you want some ideas, I created (but stopped adding to) this list of untranscribed films. You can start a draft subpage at WikiProject Film/Drafts, add it to the list, and here's a silent feature film example. Also, here's an Oswald cartoon example.
 * I hope to see you there soon. Let me know if you have any questions. (And sorry for the delay in response, I was hoping the video would be online sooner than this.) SnowyCinema (talk) 18:13, 30 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Thanks! I'll took a look later on. Also, I'd be glad to help as I can on the Character copyrights page. I'll leave more info on that over on the talk page. SDudley (talk) 19:47, 30 January 2024 (UTC)
 * There you go! Now you can watch it closer to home. SnowyCinema (talk) 20:18, 30 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Thank you for the tutorial! I can really tell that you have a lot of experience in this. Thanks for doing Poor Papa.
 * I have a note about the template being used for the Oswald titles. It seems restrictive and partially inaccurate. The 1928 shorts feature a different copyright notice at the bottom since they say 1928 (MCMXXV III ) instead of 1927 (MCMXXV II ). And Poor Papa is another outlier by not featuring any notice in this print. Perhaps this template needs to reworked for only the Disney Oswalds and to have an editable year. Future years should be decided on as we get more Oswald. The character was around for 10 more years in shorts past Disney. I even have one on 16mm film, but it won't be public domain until the 2030s.
 * How do you get your code to highlight in Wikisource? Is that something I can easily turn on? That would be so helpful to reassure me that I am writing the source properly. Does that work on Commons as well? I spend a lot of my time over there.
 * The short I am interested in is Oh What A Knight (1928). I added a draft for it on the draft page. It starts out with musical notes, so I am not certain how to depict those. SDudley (talk) 23:06, 30 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Ah you're right, the Disney+Winkler shorts don't all have the same copyright notice at the bottom as I seem to have assumed. Well, I'll look them all over tomorrow and rework this into the outlier transcriptions as suggested, but in the meantime maybe putting in a manual title would be best for now. You could copy the stuff that's already at Universal Presents Oswald the Lucky Rabbit (removing the if statement) for an easier time with the markup of it.
 * (These "consistency" templates aren't such vital things anyway, so you could just not use them if you'd like.)
 * I wouldn't personally replicate the musical notes if it were me. But if you'd like to include them somehow, a few notes should be enough so people get the general idea.
 * As far as the highlighting in the editor, when you open your wiki editor there will be dropdowns at the top like "> Advanced > Special characters". Left to the advanced button, there's a tiny icon that looks like a piece of chalk. It's the "Syntax highlighting" button, so just click that icon to toggle it. It took me a bit to find out that was what toggled it, because I always thought it was automatic.
 * Also, the 1930s Oswald reel is an incredible collectors' item! I only have one film reel in my hands, an early 1930s silent documentary about Babe Ruth that is probably in the public domain—I can't imagine something this obscure got renewed.
 * Good luck! I'm glad to be cooperating on Oswald; this is quite exciting! SnowyCinema (talk) 00:06, 31 January 2024 (UTC)
 * I can check on that Babe Ruth reel for you if you have more info. I love looking into the copyright catalogs.
 * Thank you for the edits to the template, and the suggestions for how to proceed. And thanks for the syntax highlighting. Wish it showed up here in the replies, but looking forward to using it.
 * My Oswald reel is super uncommon. It is a home video reel probably from the 1940s or 1950s of an Oswald cartoon. Here is someone else's 16mm scan of a print of the short, Happy Scouts. It is such a different type of short from these early Oswald shorts. Essentially only the same in name. A much more radical transformation than it felt befell Mickey Mouse.
 * Anyway, the short was renewed in the 1960s. So it is still under copyright in spite of that scan being on YouTube. Universal likely sees no commercial value in it. However, it will remain unable to be shared on Commons until 2034. SDudley (talk) 00:22, 31 January 2024 (UTC)

linking to Wikipedia
Please don't link titles of works on Author pages to Wikipedia. Those pages are meant to list the works we host here, and link to places we can get a scan (in order to add it here). Linking titles of works to Wikipedia articles from those pages is inappropriate. --EncycloPetey (talk) 02:32, 2 February 2024 (UTC)

 * Good to know. Thank you! SDudley (talk) 02:33, 2 February 2024 (UTC)

Blue Train
Please note that we should be using straight quotes in this work, not curly ones. - Index talk:The Mystery of the Blue Train.pdf. (Once a work has been started using one style, we should normally continue with that. -- Beardo (talk) 02:04, 4 February 2024 (UTC)

 * Thank you. Could you please tell me what the difference is? I’m still new to formatting here, but I’m glad to oblige. SDudley (talk) 02:10, 4 February 2024 (UTC)
 * Style_guide - Use a consistent style of quotation marks ("straight" or “curly”) within a given work. It is recommended to use "straight" quotes in works where there are a large number of contributing editors, since consistent use of “curly” quotes may be difficult to achieve. -- Beardo (talk) 05:40, 4 February 2024 (UTC)

Use of on pages
Hi. I noticed when doing a couple of validations on The Royal Book of Oz that you've not been using the template. You need to enter this, on a separate line, at the end of any page which is also the end of a paragraph. Its function is to stop the paragraph being joined to the first paragraph at the top of the next page when transcluded. If you have the dropdown at the bottom of the page you're editing set to 'wiki markup', you can simply click on the appropriate entry to insert the template, rather than having to type it each time. Also, in your preferences, there is a gadget that can be enabled that allows you to check whether there is a on the previous page, and to add one (if there should be one).You can delete the   thing at the start of any page (it's an artifact of the match and split process) and the , as was done at Poor Papa just now, no notice will appear. will make the year appear as 1928 instead of '27.

So, I hope this makes Oswald film transcription a bit easier. SnowyCinema (talk) 22:42, 12 February 2024 (UTC)

 * Thanks! I've been getting more comfortable with just the regular transcriptions here, so I would be interested in trying my hand at the short again. SDudley (talk) 22:47, 12 February 2024 (UTC)

Problematic pages
I can't determine why you marked the page Page:The Old Road to Paradise.djvu/8 as "Problematic". --EncycloPetey (talk) 22:43, 18 May 2024 (UTC)

 * The text is right, but it needs proper formatting and I don’t know how to do that. So I was attempting to convey that it needed that attention. SDudley (talk) 22:50, 18 May 2024 (UTC)

title: User talk:SDudley


text: The New International Encyclopædia/Misrule, Lord of

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text: Sunset Gun

title: Sunset Gun


text:
Page:Poetical works of William Cullen Bryant (IA poeticalworksof00brya).pdf/37

Rh


text: Page:Poetical works of William Cullen Bryant (IA poeticalworksof00brya).pdf/32


text: The New International Encyclopædia/Missal


text:
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Rh To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,


text: The New International Encyclopædia/Missi


text: The New International Encyclopædia/Missing Link


text:
Page:Sunset Gun.pdf/16

{| class="work_toc"
 * The Gentlest Lady || 39
 * The Maid-Servant at the Inn || 40
 * Fulfilment || 41
 * Daylight Saving || 42
 * Surprise || 43
 * Swan Song || 44
 * On Being a Woman || 45
 * Afternoon || 46
 * A Dream Lies Death || 47
 * The Homebody || 48
 * Second Love || 49
 * Fair Weather || 50
 * The Whistling Girl || 51
 * Story || 52
 * Frustration || 53
 * Healed || 54
 * Landscape || 55
 * Post-Graduate || 56
 * Verses in the Night ||
 * || 57
 * || 58
 * || 59
 * Liebestod || 60
 * For a Favorite Grand-daughter || 62
 * Dilemma || 63
 * Theory || 64
 * A Fairly Sad Tale || 65
 * The Last Question || 66
 * Superfluous Advice || 67
 * Directions for Finding the Bard || 68
 * But Not Forgotten || 69
 * Two-Volume Novel || 70
 * Pour Prendre Congé || 71
 * For a Lady Who Must Write Verse || 72
 * Rhyme Against Living || 73
 * Wisdom || 74
 * Coda || 75
 * }
 * Verses in the Night ||
 * || 57
 * || 58
 * || 59
 * Liebestod || 60
 * For a Favorite Grand-daughter || 62
 * Dilemma || 63
 * Theory || 64
 * A Fairly Sad Tale || 65
 * The Last Question || 66
 * Superfluous Advice || 67
 * Directions for Finding the Bard || 68
 * But Not Forgotten || 69
 * Two-Volume Novel || 70
 * Pour Prendre Congé || 71
 * For a Lady Who Must Write Verse || 72
 * Rhyme Against Living || 73
 * Wisdom || 74
 * Coda || 75
 * }
 * Superfluous Advice || 67
 * Directions for Finding the Bard || 68
 * But Not Forgotten || 69
 * Two-Volume Novel || 70
 * Pour Prendre Congé || 71
 * For a Lady Who Must Write Verse || 72
 * Rhyme Against Living || 73
 * Wisdom || 74
 * Coda || 75
 * }
 * For a Lady Who Must Write Verse || 72
 * Rhyme Against Living || 73
 * Wisdom || 74
 * Coda || 75
 * }
 * Coda || 75
 * }
 * }

title: Page:Sunset Gun.pdf/16


text: Index:The Giant Horse of Oz (1928).pdf

title: Index:The Giant Horse of Oz (1928).pdf


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title: Page:The Giant Horse of Oz (1928).pdf/2


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284


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Chapter Nine to put both hands to his ears and Herby dodged behind a tree to keep out of the draught.

“Ho! Ho! Where are you? Hi! Hi! Come back here you rascal. High Boy! Ho! Boy, I say High Boy!”

“Whom are you calling?” faltered the little Prince, removing one hand from his ear.

“My horse,” panted the King, beginning to stamp, whistle and clap his hands. And presently there was a clash, clatter and scrape, and down the mountain slid the strangest steed Phil or the Medicine Man had ever beheld. It was, to be perfectly frank with you, a Giant Horse. And as you have doubtless never seen a giant horse I’d better describe him at once. He was, to begin with, twice as large as an ordinary horse and of a shiny purple. His eyes were red and roguish, his mane white and flowing, while his tail was an umbrella. Yes, it really was. But it was his legs that were most remarkable. High Boy had telescope legs, capable of stretching up or down. When he slid into view, the front two were short and the hind two were long, so that he had the appearance of a kangaroo. A thistle bush hung loosely from the corner of his mouth, and he seemed quite annoyed at being disturbed.

141


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title: Page:Sunset Gun.pdf/21


text: Sunset Gun/The Red Dress

title: Sunset Gun/The Red Dress


text:
Index talk:Poetical works of William Cullen Bryant (IA poeticalworksof00brya).pdf

Formatting ideas
Cremastra (talk) 00:43, 21 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Use and center block or ppoem
 * Use bar for lines in text
 * em-dashes, not en-dashes
 * big for titles
 * start poems with  ( the poem)
 * Should probably use rh for headers.


text:
Lines, on the Death of Bishop N. K. Whitney

A mighty man, a man of worth, A father and a friend, Has left the narrow sphere of earth, His upward course to wend.

Firm as the hills—he was a stay, A bulwark and a shield— Like a strong pillar, mov'd away To Zion's broader field.

From understanding's deepest wells Unmeasur'd draughts he drew— The light, that with Jehovah dwells, Inspir'd his judgment too.

With dignity he fill'd the sphere Allotted him below— His presence seem'd an impulse here To wisdom's genial flow.

But now his noble form must lie And slumber in the dust; While he with honor joins the high Assemblies of the just.

With fondly cherish'd memory His name will be belov'd, While virtue and integrity Are by the Saints approv'd.

The stroke is with a heavy rod— But while our hearts deplore His loss, we'll own the hand of God, That God whom we adore.


text:
Ode to Deseret

Hail! our infant, growing State! Refuge for the good and great— Noblest honors thee await, State of Deseret.

While commotions shake the world— Thrones and sceptres downward hurled; Lo a banner is unfurled Here in Deseret.

See a glorious standard rise, Reaching to the upper skies, Kindly greets the pilgrim's eyes, Now in Deseret.

Truth which from the world has fled— Truth on which the nations tread, Fearless lifts its royal head Here in Deseret.

Justice, gem of matchless worth— Peace that's taken from the earth, Blooming with celestial birth; Reign in Deseret.

Hail! ye wise men from afar! Leave the scenes of strife and war; Follow freedom's brilliant star, Star of Deseret.

Sages! Patriots! Heroes gone! More than all your valor won Crowns the government anon, Here in Deseret.

Hail the People God has blest, With a free and quiet rest, Mid the mountains of the west, Here in Deseret.

Hail ye Saints of Latter-day; Shout and sound the highest lay— Tune the harps that seraphs play, Here in Deseret.

title: Ode to Deseret


text:
User talk:Michael Snow

--EncycloPetey (talk) 01:20, 21 January 2024 (UTC)

Ode to Deseret
Do you have access to a copy of this edition of the Deseret News? If not, where are you finding this text? --EncycloPetey (talk) 01:20, 21 January 2024 (UTC)

 * It's at https://newspapers.lib.utah.edu/details?id=2569921. --Michael Snow (talk) 05:38, 21 January 2024 (UTC)
 * Awesome. If those links are stable, I recommend linking from the work's Talk page (Talk:Ode to Deseret) by using Textinfo.  The most valuable texts on Wikisource are those where we can point back to a copy of the original, especially in a scan, because it means that a user can verify for themselves we have a correct text. --EncycloPetey (talk) 05:47, 21 January 2024 (UTC)

title: User talk:Michael Snow


text:
Page:A budget of paradoxes (IA cu31924103990507).pdf/237

Rh 9. The following extracts from Clavius settle the qnestion of the meaning of the term moon, as used in the Calendar:-—

'Who, except a few who think they are very sharp-sighted in this matter, is so blind as not to see that the 14th of the moon and the full moon are not the same things in the Church of God?…Although. the Church, in finding the new moon, and from it the 14th day, uses neither the true nor the mean motion of the moon, bat measures only according to the order of a cycle, it is nevertheless undeniable that the mean full moons found from astronomical tables are of the greatest use in determining the cycle which is to be preferred…the new moons of which cycle, in order to the due celebration of Easter, should. be so arranged that the 14th days of those moons, reckoning from the. day of new moon inclusive, should not fall two or more days before the mean full moon, but only one day, or else on the very day itself, or. not long after. And even thus far the Church need not take very great pains…for it is sufficient that all should reckon by the 14th day of the moon in the cycle, even though sometimes it should be more than one day before or after the mean full moon... We have taken pains that in our cycle the new moons should follow the real new moons, so that the 14th of the moon should fall either the day before the mean full moon, or on that day, or not long after; and this was done on purpose, for if the new moon of the cycle fell on the same day as the mean new moon of the astronomers, it might chance that we should celebrate Easter on the same day as the Jews or the Quartadeciman heretics, which would be absurd, or else before them, which would be still more absurd.'

From this it appears that Clavius continued the Calendar of his predecessors in the choice of the fourteenth day of the moon. Our legislature lays down the day of the full moon: and this mistake appears to be rather English than Protestant; for it occurs in missals published in the reign of Queen Mary. The calendar lunation being 29½ days, the middle day is the fifteenth day, and this is and was reckoned as the day of the full moon. There is every right to presume that the original passover was a feast of the real full moon: but it is most probable that the moons were then reckoned, not from the astronomical conjunction with the sun, which nobody sees except at an eclipse, but from the day of first visibility of the new moon. In fine climates this would be the day or two days after conjunction; and the fourteenth day from that of first visibility inclusive, would very often be the day of full moon. The following is then the proper correction of the precept in the Act of Parliament:—

Easter Day, on which the rest depend, is always the First Sunday after the fourteenth day of the calendar moon which happens upon or next after the Twenty-first day of March, according to the rules laid down for the construction of the Calendar; and if the fourteenth day happens upon a Sunday, Easter Day is the Sunday after.

10. Further, it appears that Clavius valued the celebration of the


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224 festival after the Jews, &c., more than astronomical correctness. He gives comparison tables which would startle a believer in the astronomical intention of his Calendar: they are to show that a calendar in which the moon is always made a day older than by him, represents the heavens better than he has done, or meant to do. But it must be observed that this diminution of the real moon's age has a tendency to make the English explanation often practically accordant with the Calendar. For the fourteenth day of Clavius is generally the fifteenth day of the mean moon of the heavens, and therefore most often that of the real moon. But for this, 1818 and 1845 would not have been the only instances of our day in which the English precept would have contradicted the Calendar.

11. In the construction of the Calendar, Clavius adopted the ancient cycle of 532 years, but, we may say, without ever allowing it to run out. At certain periods, a shift is made from one part of the cycle into another. This is done whenever what should be Julian leap year is made a common year, as in 1700, 1800, 1900, 2100, &c. It is also done at certain times to correct the error of 1h. 19m., before referred to, in each cycle of golden numbers: Clavius, to meet his view of the amount of that error, put forward the moon's age a day 8 times in 2,500 years. As we cannot enter at full length into the explanation, we must content ourselves with giving a set of rules, independent of tables, by which the reader may find Easter for himself in any year, either by the old Calendar or the new. Any one who has much occasion to find Hasters and moveable feasts should procure Franecœur's tables.

12. Rule for determining Easter Day of the Gregorian Calendar in any year of the new style. To the several parts of the rule are annexed, by way of example, the results for the year 1849.

I. Add 1 to the given year. (1850).

II. Take the quotient of the given year divided by 4, neglecting the remainder. (462).

III. Take 16 from the centurial figures of the given year, if it can be done, and take the remainder. (2).

IV. Take the quotient of III. divided by 4, neglecting the remainder. (0).

V. From the sum of I., II., and IV., substract III. (2310).

VI. Find the remainder of V. divided by 7. (0).

VII. Subtract VI. from 7; this is the number of the dominical letter

VIII. Divide I. by 19, the remainder (or 19, if no remainder) is the golden number. (7).


text: Index:A defence of aristocracy - a text book for Tories (IA cu31924060296278).pdf


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 invention, sacrificing everything to his new idea. As the prospect of success opened before him, he abandoned his curacy, and devoted himself to the art of stocking-making by machinery. This is the version of the story given by Henson on the authority of an old stocking-maker, maker, who died in Collins's Hospital, Nottingham, aged ninety-two, and was apprenticed in the town during the reign of Queen Anne. It is also given by Deering and Blackner as the traditional account in the neighbourhood, and it is in some measure borne out by the arms of the London Company of Frame-Work Knitters, which consists of a stocking-frame without the wood-work, with a clergyman on one side and a woman on the other as supporters.

Whatever may have been the actual facts as to the origin of the invention of the stocking-loom, there can be no doubt as to the extra-


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Page:The Innocents Abroad (1869).djvu/436

406 aye, sir! We are a handful of private citizens of America, traveling simply for recreation, and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial state!”

As I was a member of the committee, and helped to frame the Address, these sarcasms came home to me. I never heard a sailor proclaiming himself as a handful of American citizens traveling for recreation, but I wished he might trip and fall overboard, and so reduce his handful by one individual, at least. I never was so tired of any one phrase as the sailors made me of the opening sentence of the Address to the Emperor of Russia.

This seaport of Smyrna, our first notable acquaintance in Asia, is a closely packed city of one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants, and, like Constantinople, it has no outskirts. It is as closely packed at its outer edges as it is in the centre, and then the habitations leave suddenly off and the plain beyond seems houseless. It is just like any other Oriental city. That is to say, its Moslem houses are heavy and dark, and as comfortless as so many tombs; its streets are crooked, rudely and roughly paved, and as narrow as an ordinary staircase; the streets uniformly carry a man to any other place than the one he wants to go to, and surprise him by landing him in the most unexpected localities; business is chiefly carried on in great covered bazaars, celled like a honeycomb with innumerable shops no larger than a common closet, and the whole hive cut up into a maze of alleys about wide enough to accommodate a laden camel, and well calculated to confuse a stranger and eventually lose him; every where there is dirt, every where there are fleas, every where there are lean, broken-hearted dogs; every alley is thronged with people; wherever you look, your eye rests upon a wild masquerade of extravagant costumes; the workshops are all open to the streets, and the workmen visible; all manner of sounds assail the ear, and over them all rings out the muezzin’s cry from some tall minaret, calling the faithful vagabonds to prayer; and superior to the call to prayer, the noises in the streets, the interest of the costumes—superior to every thing, and Gaining the bulk of at-


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Rh tention first, last, and all the time—is a combination of Mohammedan stenches, to which the smell of even a Chinese quarter would be as pleasant as the roasting odors of the fatted calf to the nostrils of the returning Prodigal. Such is Oriental luxury—such is Oriental splendor! We read about it all our days, but we comprehend it not until we see it. Smyrna is a very old city. Its name occurs several times in the Bible, one or two of the disciples of Christ visited it, and here was located one of the original seven apocalyptic churches spoken of in Revelations. These churches were symbolized in the Scriptures as candlesticks, and on certain conditions there was a sort of implied promise that Smyrna should be endowed with a “crown of life.” She was to “be faithful unto death”—those were the terms. She has not kept up her faith straight along, but the pilgrims that wander hither consider that she has come near enough to it to save her, and so they point to the fact that Smyrna to-day wears her crown of life, and is a great city, with a great commerce and full of energy, while the cities wherein were located the other six churches, and to which no crown of life was promised, have vanished from the earth. So Smyrna really still possesses her crown of life, in a business point of view. Her career, for eighteen centuries, has been a chequered one, and she has been under the rule of princes of many creeds, yet there has been no season during all that time, as far as we know, (and during such seasons as she was inhabited at all,) that she has been without her little community of Christians “faithful unto death.” Hers was the only church against which no threats were implied in the Revelations, and the only one which survived.

With Ephesus, forty miles from here, where was located another of the seven churches, the case was different. The “candlestick” has been removed from Ephesus. Her light has been put out. Pilgrims, always prone to find prophecies in the Bible, and often where none exist, speak cheerfully and complacently of poor, ruined Ephesus as the victim of prophecy. And yet there is no sentence that promises, without due qualification, the destruction of the city. The words are:


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408

That is all; the other verses are singularly complimentary to Ephesus. The threat is qualified. There is no history to show that she did not repent. But the cruelest habit the modern prophecy-savans have, is that one of coolly and arbitrarily fitting the prophetic shirt on to the wrong man. They do it without regard to rhyme or reason. Both the cases I have just mentioned are instances in point. Those “prophecies” are distinctly leveled at the “churches of Ephesus, Smyrna,” etc., and yet the pilgrims invariably make them refer to the cities instead. No crown of life is promised to the town of Smyrna and its commerce, but to the handful of Christians who formed its “church.” If they were “faithful unto death,” they have their crown now—but no amount of faithfulness and legal shrewdness combined could legitimately drag the city into a participation in the promises of the prophecy. The stately language of the Bible refers to a crown of life whose lustre will reflect the day-beams of the endless ages of eternity, not the butterfly existence of a city built by men’s hands, which must pass to dust with the builders and be forgotten even in the mere handful of centuries vouchsafed to the solid world itself between its cradle and its grave.

The fashion of delving out fulfillments of prophecy where that prophecy consists of mere “ifs,” trenches upon the absurd. Suppose, a thousand years from now, a malarious swamp builds itself up in the shallow harbor of Smyrna, or something else kills the town; and suppose, also, that within that time the swamp that has filled the renowned harbor of Ephesus and rendered her ancient site deadly and uninhabitable to-day, becomes hard and healthy ground; suppose the natural consequence ensues, to wit: that Smyrna becomes a melancholy ruin, and Ephesus is rebuilt. What would the prophecy-savans say? They would coolly skip over our age of the world, and say: “Smyrna was not faithful unto death, and so her crown of life was denied her; Ephesus repented, and lo! her candle-


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Rh stick was not removed. Behold these evidences! How wonderful is prophecy!”

Smyrna has been utterly destroyed six times. If her crown of life had been an insurance policy, she would have had an opportunity to collect on it the first time she fell. But she holds it on sufferance and by a complimentary construction of language which does not refer to her. Six different times, however, I suppose some infatuated prophecy-enthusiast blundered along and said, to the infinite disgust of Smyrna and the Smyrniotes: “In sooth, here is astounding fulfillment of prophecy! Smyrna hath not been faithful unto death, and behold her crown of life is vanished from her head. Verily, these things be astonishing!”

Such things have a bad influence. They provoke worldly men into using light conversation concerning sacred subjects. Thick-headed commentators upon the Bible, and stupid preachers and teachers, work more damage to religion than sensible, cool-brained clergymen can fight away again, toil as they may. It is not good judgment to fit a crown of life upon a city which has been destroyed six times. That other class of wiseacres who twist prophecy in such a manner as to make it promise the destruction and desolation of the same city, use judgment just as bad, since the city is in a very flourishing condition now, unhappily for them. These things put arguments into the mouth of infidelity.

A portion of the city is pretty exclusively Turkish; the Jews have a quarter to themselves; the Franks another quarter; so, also, with the Armenians. The Armenians, of course, are Christians. Their houses are large, clean, airy, handsomely paved with black and white squares of marble, and in the centre of many of them is a square court, which has in it. a luxuriant flower-garden and a sparkling fountain; the doors of all the rooms open on this. A very wide hall leads to the street door, and in this the women sit, the most of the day. In the cool of the evening they dress up in their best raiment and show themselves at the door. They are all comely of countenance, and exceedingly neat and cleanly; they look as if they


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Rh heavy loads on their backs, and a fancy-looking negro in Turkish costume, or an Arab, preceding them on a little donkey and completely overshadowed and rendered insignificant by the huge beasts. To see a camel train laden with the spices of Arabia and the rare fabrics of Persia come marching through the narrow alleys of the bazaar, among porters with their—burdens, money-changers, lamp-merchants, Alnaschars in the glassware business, portly cross-legged Turks smoking the famous narghili, and the crowds drifting to and fro in the fanciful costumes of the East, is a genuine revelation of the Orient. The picture lacks nothing. It casts you back at once into your forgotten boyhood, and again you dream over the wonders of the Arabian Nights; again your companions are princes, your lord is the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, and your servants are terrific giants and genii that come with smoke and lightning and thunder, and go as a storm goes when they depart!


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 ing her hands on his thick shoulders, kissed him affectionately.

"I've been worried about you, Daddy Mundson." Her rich contralto voice matched her exotic beauty. "Since you and Adam had that quarrel the day you left, I did not see him until this morning, when he landed the sun-ship alone."

"And you pleaded with him to return for us?"

"Yes." Her eyes drooped and a hot flush swept over her face.

Dr. Mundson smiled. "But I'm back now, Athalia, and I've brought some one whom I hope you will be glad to know."

Reaching for her hand, he placed it simply in Northwood's.

"This is John, Athalia. Isn't he handsomer than the pictures of him which I televisioned to you? God bless both of you."

He walked ahead and turned his back.

MAGICAL half hour followed for Northwood and Athalia. The girl told him of her past life, how Dr. Mundson had discovered her one year ago working in a New York sweat shop, half dead from consumption. Without friends, she was eager to follow the scientist to New Eden, where he promised she would recover her health immediately.

"And He was right, John," she said shyly. "The Life Ray, that marvelous energy ray which penetrates to the utmost depths of earth and ocean, giving to the cells of all living bodies the power to grow and remain animate, has been concentrated by Dr. Mundson in his stored sunshine. The Life Ray healed me almost immediately."

Northwood looked down at the glorious girl beside him, whose eyes already fluttered away from his like shy black butterflies. Suddenly he squeezed the soft hand in his and said passionately:

"Athalia! Because Adam wants you and will get you if he can, let us set aside all the artificialities of civilization. I have loved you madly ever since I saw your picture. If you can say the same to me, it will give me courage to face what I know lies before me."

Athalia, her face suddenly tender, came closer to him.

"John Northwood, I love you."

Her red lips came temptingly close; but before he could touch them, Adam suddenly pushed his body between him and Athalia! Adam was pale, and all the icyness was gone from his blue eyes which were deep and dark and very human. He looked down at Athalia, and she looked up at him, two handsome specimens of perfect manhood and womanhood.

"Fast work, Athalia!" The new vibrant voice was strained. "I was hoping you would be disappointed in him, especially after having been wooed, by me this morning. I could take you if I wished, of course; but I prefer to win you in the ancient manner. Dismiss him!" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Northwood's direction.

Athalia flashed vividly and looked at him almost compassionately. "I am not great enough for you, Adam. I dare not love you."

DAM laughed, and still oblivious of Northwood and Dr. Mundson, folded his arms over his breast. With the golden skylight on his burnished hair, he was a valiant, magnificent spectacle.

"Since the beginning of time, gods and archangels have looked upon the daughters of men and found them fair. Mate with me, Athalia, and I, fifty thousand years beyond the creature Mundson has selected for you, will make you as I am, the deathless overlord of life and all nature."

He drew her hand to his bosom.

For one dark moment, Northwood felt himself seared by jealousy, for, through the plump, sweet flesh of Athalia's face, he saw the red blood leap again. How could she withhold herself from this splendid superman?


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

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

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

Afterward the two principals made a tour of the place.

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

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

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

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

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

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 of a decently tidy man of moderate tastes in every way.

“Colorless chap,” Hutchins said, disgustedly; “hardest kind in the world to trace. Now, if he had frisky pictures on his walls, or Bolshevik books hidden in his dresser, we might look for something decided. But these every-dayish, plain American citizen fellows—where are you?”

“If he’s an artist, he ought to have some personality,” Dickson suggested.

“Probably has, as to temperament and all that. But I don’t believe he’s much of an artist—I’ve never heard the name—have you?”

“No; but there are hundreds of artists within two blocks of this place whose names haven’t been heard around the world—as yet. Let’s look in the bathroom—may surprise his secrets there.”

“Nixy!” and Hutchins looked his discouragement. “I deduce that he is a man who uses soap and water, who shaves himself with a safety razor, and uses pumice stone on his teeth.”

The last after a peep into a small jar on the glass shelf.

“Well, then to the scene of the crime next.”

“You see,” Hutchins explained, as he drew away the protecting chairs, “I fenced this place off because I thought those hoodlums would trample it, like cattle on a picnic field. But it seems to be intact. Yet I daresay it will show up just about nothing.”

“Mostly spangles,” Dickson observed, looking at the glittering specks on the rug.

“Are they from that rig of Mrs. Barham’s?”

“No”; Dickson knew more about these things than Hutchins. “No, hers were iridescent—these are silver-colored—tin, probably.”

He picked up a few.

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“Save them, anyway—put them in an envelope—gather all you can. Probably they are off of more than one gown. Now, here’s a long white glove—but that might belong to anybody.”

“Save it—it’s a possible clue. Well, here are two cigarette stubs—women never care where they throw them! and here are three hair-pins—all different. Here’s a man’s glove, a dagger”

“A dagger!”

“Oh, just a tinsel one—out of some Spanish girl’s hair—it will bend if you look at it.”

“Keep it. It shows the presence of your Spanish girl on the scene.”

“Probably before the crime. You see, Dickson, this place, near the divan and table, was a favorite lounging spot, and they all drifted in here between dances. Then it was doubtless during a dance that the crime occurred, when this room was practically deserted, and also when that Jazz racket would drown any sounds.”

“That’s right so far, Hutchins. But get all the scraps here you can—for among them must be the clues left by the murderer—if any.”

“Yes, if any! Well, here’s a fan and a mask”

“A mask!”

“Yes, why’s that strange?”

“Because no one had as yet unmasked! It isn’t Mrs. Barham’s—she had hers on when they found her.”

“Oh, it’s an extra then. It’s just a tiny black domino, with a lace frill”

“A woman’s, then?”

“Not necessarily. The men who wore fancy-fiddly costumes, like cavaliers or troubadours, wore this sort of mask.”

“Maybe it’s young Jarvis’s. He was a troubadour.”

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“All right, we’ll keep all the flotsam and jetsam—there’s nothing else, but a few beads and a small, trumpery vanity case—not a gold one.

“Mostly women’s stuff.”

“Yes, but men don’t have many loose trifles to shed. Now, what about this white streak on the rug? About six inches long”

“Looks like face powder—probably from that vanity case.”

“Maybe. Now, here’s one spot of blood—poor lady. There was little of that—it was contusion rather than abrasion, though the skin was broken.”

“Reconstruct, Hutchins. Can you see the murderer standing here—or here?”

Dickson seriously moved from spot to spot.

“No,” Hutchins declared positively, “he stood about here. The other side of the table from his victim. I see them quarreling—perhaps she was repelling his advances—and he, in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of anger at some thing she said, fired the thing—almost involuntarily.”

“Yes, it must have been something like that. Now, do you suppose it was Locke?”

“Who else?”

“Why not Charley? Orientals have strong passions.”

“But why would a Chinese servant have anything at all to do with a grand society lady?”

“I don’t know, of course, but he might have. Suppose he had been her butler—and she had unjustly accused him or discharged him—anyway, on the other hand, what could the grand lady have to do with an uncelebrated young artist?”

“Idle speculation, all of it. Let’s take a look at our facts. We have the wife of Andrew Barham murdered at

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 a party in the studio apartment of Thomas Locke. Deduction, they were acquainted.”

“No; many guests brought uninvited friends.”

“Then where is Locke? Unless he knew this woman, whether he killed her or not, why would he disappear a few moments after the crime?”

“I think he went away for some innocent reason”

“Such as?”

“I can’t think of any, I admit.”

“No; he didn’t run out to get more sugar for the lemonade. Now, I can’t figure it out exactly, but as near as I can gather, the lady was killed at about ten or a little after. Maybe quarter after. But, at what must have been nearly half past ten, Briggs, the policeman on beat, saw a man who he thinks was Locke, come out of this house, walk down the front steps, calmly but quickly, and then walk rapidly over toward the Avenue.

“Briggs thought nothing of it at the time—didn’t even think of its being Locke, for he knew of the party, but he’s been ruminating since and now he’s almost sure it was Locke.”

“Look here, Dickson, these surenesses, after the incident becomes important, are to taken with a grain of salt.”

“I know it. If Briggs had been sure from the first—it would be different. But when he learns that Locke is missing, it is easy to imagine that the man he saw leave this house looked like him. Of course, Locke wouldn’t leave the house during the party, unless it was because he is the criminal. But I can’t suspect him on that tale of Briggs’, coming late, as it does. Still, it’s a thing to remember. What did Locke wear as a fancy garb?”

“A Monk’s robe, I’m told, with a deep hood or cowl.”

“He couldn’t go out in the street with that on. If

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 he ran away he must have left the rig in the house. Let’s rake for it.”

“Oh, set one of those chaps downstairs at the job. I’m tired—physically—and anyway, we’ll get farther by thrashing this thing out verbally between us. Go on, you were collecting your facts.”

Hutchins called an assistant, and bade him search the house for Locke’s monkish garb, and then he resumed:

“Well, I think that constitutes my entire exhibition. Mrs. Barham is murdered and Locke is missing. Have you anything further to add?”

“Chinese Charley is missing also.”

“Yes. Now we have nothing that can be rightly called evidence, and very few, if any clues. I can’t care much for these ripped off spangles, and dropped gloves. The studio is full of such things. At a masquerade, the costumes fairly rain tinsel and fringes. But I do think, Hutchins, that this is a big case. I do think there’s a lot behind the present aspect, and it is not going to be easy to ferret it out.”

“Do you suppose for a minute I thought it would be?” the detective growled. “Well, how shall we set about it?”

“First—and I don’t mean to do it first—but of first importance, is to locate Locke. Second, learn the details of Mrs. Barham’s past. On those two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

“And after those two trifling errands are attended to, what next?”

“Don’t be pettish, Hutchins. You’ve never had a bigger chance for good work. Go to it. Keep your sweepings and doodads, but also put in a lot of headwork and energetic search. As soon as possible interview the little Dutch girl—though I don’t think she had a hand in the crime.”

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“She had her sleeve in it then—I saw a smear on it that looked like blood.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it was. More likely red rouge or lipstick.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I may get something about Locke from her and the Vallon girl. They are thick with him—and Henry Post is too.”

“That’s the dope. Then as soon as it’s late enough for society people, I suppose you’ll go up to the Barhams’ house.”

“Yes; I suppose so. Yet what can he tell me? That man was flabbergasted. There was no make-believe about his utter astonishment at finding his wife in this house.”

“I agree to that. Now go home and get some sleep—unless you’d rather bunk here?”

“I believe I will. I’ll appropriate Mr. Locke’s bedroom and bath and then if his nibs returns stealthily in the small hours, I’ll be here to receive him.”

“Very well, I’ll go home. Get around to the Vallon place as early as they’ll let you, and then make for the Barhams’.”

Snugly ensconced in Tommy Locke’s bed, Hutchins found that he could rest but he couldn’t sleep.

So he let his mind play with his problems, building up fantastic air castles, in hope of striking an idea that might be really illuminative.

He was strongly tempted to get up and scrape over the house again, but, he argued, he would probably find nothing, and would only prevent the resting of his tired nerves.

But he vowed a mighty vow, that he would put all his best energies and all his most tireless and indefatigable efforts into this thing, and improve this chance that had come to him to make good.

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Locke’s very convenient radium clock showed Hutchins four-thirty the last time he looked at it, and after that he fell into a deep and exhausted slumber. The two guards, one in the studio and one in the lower hall, dozed a little, too, though they didn’t really sleep.

But at six o’clock, Hutchins’ eyes flew open wide, and he pulled his wits together in an effort to decide whether he had heard something or had dreamed it.

Another instant, and he sensed a movement of some sort that suggested the near-by presence of a human being.

It was scarcely a sound—more like a stealthy moving thing that was perceptible through feeling rather than the ear.

Silently Hutchins sat up in bed. He was wide awake, every sense alert, and ready to spring when he deemed best.

He hadn’t the slightest doubt that it was Locke, returning on some necessary errand, and hoping to find his room unoccupied.

Then the movement came again, it became almost a sound, and in the faint glimmer of dawn, Hutchins saw a figure coming slowly, silently but steadily toward him as he lay in bed.

He waited, eyes almost closed, until the person was within arm’s reach and then jumped up and grabbed him.

A fearful shriek was the result, and in an instant Hutchins had snapped on the light and discovered that he was holding the squirming, fighting, struggling form of the Chinese boy, Charley.

“You!” he exclaimed in a sudden burst of absurd disappointment that it was not Locke.

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At that moment the two guards came running, attracted by the noise.

“Here’s the Chink,” Hutchins said; “take care of him, you two, till I can get dressed. Don’t hurt him.”

Mindful of a hard day before him, Hutchins indulged in a refreshing bath and was pleased with the quality of the absent Locke’s soap and towels.

He was half regretful after he had done this, for, he ruminated, “maybe I spoiled some perfectly good evidence by messing up this bathroom. Can’t help it now, though, and anyway, the Charley thing is here to clean up after me. Incidentally, perhaps he can rustle some breakfast for me! It’s an ill wind, etc., or do I mean, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb?”

He found that the two guards had cannily placated Charley, and had already set him to work in the kitchen, under threat of instant arrest if he disobeyed a single order.

But obeying orders was Charley’s middle name, and he broke eggs and brewed coffee skillfully and not uncheerfully.

“Well, youngest scion of the Ming Dynasty, you arrived on time, didn’t you?”

“Yes, always at six.”

The Chinaman who talked pidgin or not as he chose looked at him calmly. He was intelligent and respectful, but Hutchins had planned his own line of talk.

“What time did you go away last night?” he said, in a matter-of-fact way, as if a true answer were inevitable.

“When the pollismans come.”

His air was as matter of fact as Hutchins’ own, and the detective believed him—so far.

“Why?”

“No like. Aflaid,”

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“So you ran away.”

“Yes, I go home. Every night I go home.”

“But you usually stay until Mr. Locke is ready to retire—or at least until he dismisses you?”

“Yes—usually.”

“What time did Mr. Locke leave last night?”

“Maybe half-past ten—maybe.”

“You saw him go? Ah, you let him out?”

“I saw him go—I no let him out.”

“Oh, yes, I remember—he let himself out, of course. Was that it?”

But the Chinaman had sensed something wrong, and became secretive.

“I no know—I no see him.”

“Hey there—none o’ that! You said you did see him! You want to be arrested? Shut up in big prison? Bread and water? Hey? You tell the truth, now. What time did you see Mr. Locke go out of this house?”

“Can’t tell”—and Charley looked sullen. “Don’t know.”

“Well, you find out. Cudgel your memory now. Wasn’t it earlier than half past ten?”

“No”; with an ugly glance.

“All right, was it later?”

“No,” angrily now.

“Then, as near as you can fix the time, Mr. Locke left this house at about ten thirty. Alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know! Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did he wear his—his big monk dress?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you go to prison. Take him,” Hutchins nodded to the guards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The garment itself was dull brown, but on the front

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 breast was an almost invisible spot that might or might not be blood.

“Hard to tell,” he concluded, after a close examination, “but put it away very carefully. You fellows will have this place in your keeping right along, I suppose. Well, don’t let any one touch that robe till it’s tested.”

Charley appeared at the table suddenly.

“Caterman here.”

“Caterman? Oh, the caterer’s man. Tell him to come in. And bring me another cup of coffee. It’s the best in the world!”

The Chinaman smiled. Apparently conditions were not troubling him much.

The man from the caterer’s came in diffidently.

“I suppose you want to take away your chairs and dishes,” said Hutchins, casually. “You may do so— but be careful to take nothing but what is yours, and if you notice anything unusual or peculiar, report it. See?”

The man who, was intelligent, seemed to understand.

“By the way,” Hutchins said, “did any of your people see Mr. Locke the master of the house—er—late last evening?”

“One of our men was on the door, sir.”

“He was! Did he see Mr. Locke go out, by any chance?”

“He let him out.”

“Ah. You interest me strangely! What time was this?”

“About half past ten.”

“And why is your doorman so accurate as to the time?”

“Because,” the man looked serious, “because it was right after that that we heard the commotion upstairs.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

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“The waiters—and our people from Mascarelli’s. We were in the dining room and pantry, of course.”

“Of course. And you have been talking the affair over among yourselves?”

“Sure—why not?”

“No reason in the world. I meant, do you know all about the doorman letting Mr. Locke out? And what do you mean by letting him out? Couldn’t he get out himself?”

“We had a regular man on the door to open it for the guests entering or leaving. So when Mr. Locke wanted to leave, of course Joe opened the door for him.”

“And did he say anything—anything special?”

“He only said, ‘I’ll be back in a few moments.’ That’s all.”

“You’re sure of all this? You heard Joe tell it? If you’re sure—I don’t need Joe’s story—but perhaps I’d better get it anyway.”

“No need, sir. We all talked it over and over. Joe told his yarn a dozen times, and every time he said that Mr. Locke just went out—not hurried like, but as if ordinary—and he said—‘Back in a few minutes.’ That’s all.”

“And it’s a lot. And whatever time it was by the clock, Joe says it was shortly before the excitement began?”

“Yes, sir, he says just that.”

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quite content with a second-hand yarn, Hutchins walked around by the caterer’s place on his way to Miss Vallon’s home.

He found Joe, the doorman, and asked him concerning the matter.

Joe told the tale just as the other man had repeated it.

“Did Mr. Locke seem at all flustered or flurried, Joe?”

“Not at all, sir. Might have been just going of an errand—as I thought he was. Maybe that’s what he did do, and met with some accident or foul play himself.”

“Maybe. You noticed nothing more of special interest—in the light of later affairs?”

“No, sir—that is, except this. Right after Mr. Locke went away—well—maybe five minutes after, a lady came running downstairs. She had on one of those fancy dresses, and a dark cloak over it.

“‘Let me out, please,’ she says—pretty like. ‘I’m late to keep an appointment.’”

“What did she look like?”

“Lord, sir, I couldn’t tell you. Those dressy ladies look all alike to me. Well, I let her out—I thought as she didn’t have an escort, she’d have a car. But, no, she walked—not fast, but brisk like, and went over east. I watched her till I couldn’t see her any more. Probably her appointment was near by.”

“Probably. Then she didn’t go the way Mr. Locke went?”

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“Oh, no, sir, just the opposite way. He went toward the Avenue.”

“I see. Well, very likely the lady is in no way concerned in last night’s work.”

“That’s what I think, sir. Just a casual guest—going on to another party. That’s the way they do.”

“Who engaged you people, Joe? Mr. Locke?”

“No, sir. Mr. Post. He always does. Mr. Locke don’t have parties very often, leastways, not big ones—and when he does, Mr. Post and Miss Vallon, they do all the ordering. Mr. Locke, he likes it better that way. He’s no head for such details.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not so well, sir, but I’ve seen him. A pleasant-speaking man to-day, and to-morrow—well, sort of absent-minded.”

“He wasn’t absent-minded when he left the house last night?”

“Not a bit. Bright as could be. Just, back in a minute, and a pleasant smile, and he was off.”

“Do you suppose, Joe, that he could have—er—you know, committed a crime, and then gone off gay—like that?”

“Well, he wasn’t to say gay, sir. But—oh, well there’s no tellin’ with these artist folks. They’re not like real people. I know. I’ve opened doors to both sorts—to all sorts—and the people down here—they’re sort of touch and go, here to-day and gone to-morrow. I can’t seem to think that Mr. Locke would do such a thing—and I don’t think he did—but if he did—why, yes, I think he’d be quite up to skipping off like as if nothing was the matter. And isn’t the fact that he hasn’t come back, pretty good proof of his guilt?”

“So you suspect him, do you?”

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“It isn’t for me to suspect, sir. But if he turns out to be the one, I shan’t be overly surprised.”

“You’ve no real reason to think him a criminal?”

“Oh, Lord, no, sir, not that. But when a man goes off and doesn’t come back, and in a few minutes a lady’s found dead, and nobody else on the premises so much as knows who she is—what else is there to think?”

“What, indeed?” said Hutchins. “Now, just one more question, my good man. That lady that went away soon after Mr. Locke, did more follow her?”

“Not till after the alarm was given. Not till folks wanted to get away from a house that had trouble coming to it.”

“But you said the alarm was given almost immediately after Mr. Locke went.”

“Yes—that’s so. Well, I may as well own up I can’t remember exactly. The lady I spoke of w^ent alone; then when the others went, they went more by twos and threes. And they wrent talking excited like in whispers, and seemin’ awful shocked, which wasn’t surprisin’. But the first lady, now, she couldn’t have known about it, for she was smiling and sweet.”

“Did she have on a mask?”

“No, she’d taken that off.”

“And you can’t remember her dress at all?”

“Well—it was white. What I could see of it. But all the ladies wore long, full cloaks or capes that covered up their rig. Specially those who walked.”

“A good many did walk?”

“Oh, yes. You see the Square people are neighborly, and most of ’em live only a few blocks off.”

Concluding he could learn no more from this man,

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 Hutchins went to the task he dreaded, that of interviewing Miss Cutler.

He well knew Miss Vallon intended to shield the girl all she could from the least or slightest inconvenience.

And sure enough, when he arrived, Miss Vallon met him in the living room, which was the studio of her tiny apartment, with the word that Miss Cutler was not yet awake.

“And she is so worn out, I want her to sleep,” Kate purred on, pleasantly, “won’t I do? I can tell you all she could.”

Hutchins came to the conclusion that directness was best with this type of woman—so he said:

“Miss Vallon, you will do up to a certain pitch—and maybe past it. But if I find it necessary to question Miss Cutler personally let me assure you it will be far better for her to consent to see me than to continue to refuse.”

Kate Vallon paled a little, but she only said:

“Very well, question me.”

“I come to you, because I understand you and Miss Cutler and Mr. Post are Mr. Locke’s nearest friends, in this district, at least. I am told by the caterer’s people that you ordered the supper, and such things as that betoken intimacy. Now, Miss Vallon, do you know where Mr. Locke is?”

“I have not the faintest idea.”

Hutchins said nothing to that, but his thought was, “And you wouldn’t tell me if you had!”

“Do you think Miss Cutler or Mr. Post knows?”

“I am sure Miss Cutler does not, and I am sure Mr. Post did not when I last saw him, which was when he brought us home last night.”

“Does Mr. Post propose to try to find out?”

“That I don’t know. You would better ask him.”

“I intend to. Now, Miss Vallon, first of all, why are you

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 in this distinctly antagonistic frame of mind? Don’t you know that you act as if you had something to conceal—or if there were something to be concealed, regarding Mr. Locke? Why is that?”

“You’re utterly absurd. As a matter of fact, I know very little about Mr. Locke. We are all good friends, but ours is not an intimate sort of a crowd. I know no more about his private or personal affairs than he knows about mine. I have no idea whether his disappearance is a purely casual one, or whether it is in any way connected with the distressing affair of last night. Indeed, Mr. Hutchins, I have no information that would be of the slightest use to you.”

Hutchins bowed slightly.

“Then I must ask for an interview with Miss Cutler. I am sorry to awaken her, but the law’s demands are inexorable. And she can go to sleep again. The lassitude of the day after a party is not a real malady. If you refuse further, you will make me think there is some other reason”

“Very well,” and Kate Vallon went to fetch Pearl Jane.

The suspiciously quick return of the pair made Hutchins smile inwardly at the story of the sleeping girl, but he made no allusion to that.

“I don’t want to worry or annoy you, Miss Cutler,” Hutchins said with almost kindness, for he saw at once she had doubtless passed a sleepless night. “But if you will tell me your own story—tell me all that is on your mind—it will be so much easier for both of us, than if I have to drag it out piecemeal.”

“I haven’t any story—I haven’t anything to tell,” and the girl gave him a piteous look.

“Let me help you,” and Hutchins was gentleness itself. “

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 When you hid in the closet what were you afraid of?”

“N-nothing in especial—but all the horrid things—the policeman, the dead woman”

“Had you seen the dead woman?” Hutchins shot this out, suddenly, and Pearl Jane gave a little scream.

“No, oh, no, I hadn’t seen her.”

“Yes, you had seen her. You had leaned down and looked at her—and, in doing so you touched her—and you made a stain of blood on the sleeve of your Dutch costume.”

To his surprise she suddenly changed her whole attitude. She sat up straight and seemed possessed of a new spirit of bravado.

“I didn’t do any such thing!” she said, and Kate chimed in with, “Of course she didn’t.”

“May I see the frock?” Hutchins asked, calmly.

“Certainly,” said Kate, and she left the room.

Hutchins took quick advantage.

“Miss Cutler,” he said, softly, “trust in me. Truly, it is the best and wisest course. I will help you all I can—and I’m sure you have nothing of any moment to confess.”

“Oh, I have! I have!” she moaned, and then Kate returned, and defiantly handed the pretty little costume to the detective.

Remembering just where he had seen the stain on the sleeve, he turned to it, but there was none there.

“You see!” cried Kate in triumph.

“Yes, I see,” he returned, “and so can you, the place where it has been washed out. You can see clearly the mark made by the water or whatever was used to cleanse it.”

“Nonsense,” said Kate, airily, “that’s where Miss Cutler chanced to stain her dress while eating a little supper

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 after we came home. I persuaded her to try to nibble a bit of toast and drink some chocolate, and the chocolate spattered as I poured it from the pot.”

Hutchins looked at her in undisguised admiration.

“On the spur of the moment?” he asked, frankly, “or had you thought it up before?”

“The simple truth,” persisted Kate, but he saw her eyelids quiver, and he knew it was far from the simple truth.

He didn’t know exactly what to do. He suddenly remembered that the monk’s robe had been found in that same closet, and that the girl might have smeared her sleeve from that. For he felt sure the dark stain on Locke’s robe was blood. Did Pearl Jane know that?

But if Detective Hutchins’ thoughts were chaotic, and his conclusions contradictory, they were no more so than the conflicting theories that filled the troubled brain of Andrew Barham.

From the moment he stepped in his wife’s car to go back to his own home until he reached it, he was anxious and alarmed as to what the effect of the terrible news would be on Madeleine’s mother.

He had a strange feeling that she would think he was somehow to blame—that he had let this terrible thing come to them. Yet surely he had kept watch and guard over his wife as fully and carefully as she would let him.

His heart was full of grief, and the very fact that he and Madeleine had not been so congenial or happy as some married pairs, served to accentuate rather than mitigate his sorrow. For he had really loved his wife—loved her far more than she ever knew or appreciated. More than she cared, probably. Yet when such a thought came to him he put it away, it seemed a sort of disloyalty.

But, he thought, as he neared home, the first thing to

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 do was tell Mrs. Selden. He was tempted to wait until morning, even strove to persuade himself that it would be better for her to have her night’s sleep in peace, but he soon realized this idea was born of his distaste for the ordeal he knew he must face.

So he dismissed the chauffeur, let himself in the house and went upstairs.

He went to Madeleine’s boudoir, and tapped softly, for he knew Claudine would be there awaiting her mistress.

The maid opened the door, and stared when she saw who was there.

“I will come in for a moment, Claudine,” he said; “I have something to tell you. But first, what did your mistress wear this evening?”

“Madame went to a Bal Masque,” came the reply. “She wore a beautiful costume of an Oriental Princess.”

“Where was the ball to be?”

“Madame did not say.”

“Did she say what time she would return?”

“Only to say that she would be late, but I must sit up for her. It is not yet late.”

“No; but—Claudine, your mistress will never return—she—she is dead.”

“Monsieur! Sir! What can you mean?”

“What I say. Have a care, Claudine, do not break into noisy weeping. I have all I can bear. Listen. My wife is dead—more, we have reason to think she was killed”

“Mon Dieu! Murder!” and the girl trembled pitifully.

“Hush!” said Barham, knowing he must be stern, even cruel, if she was to be of use to him. “Now, listen—it is not for you to take the center of the stage. I have to tell Madame Selden—think what that will mean. Go at once, Claudine, awaken her, and ask her to receive me.

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 Do not tell her what I have told you—merely say I must see her at once. If she makes real objection, say it is on a gravely serious matter and is imperative.”

And then Andrew Barham paced Madeleine’s boudoir, until Claudine returned to tell him Mrs. Selden was ready to see him.

He found her sitting up in a chair, robed in peignoir and cap.

“What is it, Drew?” she asked. “Has anything happened? I’m sure you wouldn’t rout me out of bed otherwise.”

“Yes, Mother,” and Andrew Barham felt nearer her now than he ever had before. “Yes, something has happened—and we must bear it together, you and I. Something has happened to Madeleine—our little Maddy.”

“What is it? Tell me!”

She must have sensed it in part from his face, for her own countenance turned ashen, and she shook like a leaf.

“She was hurt—” he began—“badly hurt—and”

“And she is dead!” the mother said; “you needn’t say it, I know. How was she hurt?”

Relieved at her calmness, Barham began very gently to tell her the details, when, suddenly gleaning the whole truth, she gave a scream and flinging out her arms, slipped down in her chair, unconscious.

Hastily summoning Claudine, Barham lifted her back to her bed, and by the use of violet salts she soon recovered her wavering consciousness.

And then she became violently vituperative.

“My child!” she moaned, “my baby—my little Madeleine!” Then, with a wild shriek, “Don’t you sit there, sobbing. You never loved her! You never understood her! Leave me, Drew—I can’t bear to look at you

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 now. No, come back here—tell me more—tell me all about my child—my baby. Where is she, where is she, I say! Where is she now?”

And he told her what he had done.

“Sent her off alone—to a terrible place! I said you never loved her! I knew you hated her”

“Listen, mother—don’t misjudge me. It was necessary—the authorities wouldn’t let me bring her home”

Mrs. Selden sat straight up in bed. Still handsome, she looked like some avenging goddess. Her white hair had become disordered, her dark eyes shone like coals of fire, and her sharp features seemed sharper still in her wild frenzy.

“The authorities! What have they to say about my child?”

In vain Barham tried to make her understand. He felt it would be best to get the whole scene over at once—and perhaps firmness was the wisest course.

Claudine stood by, now adjusting a pillow, now offering the salts bottle, and now breaking down herself.

“Try to understand, Mother,” Barham said, gently, but holding her by both hands and gazing into her eyes. “Madeleine has been killed—murdered. We have to do many things in that case, that we would not in case of an ordinary death. We have”

“Where was she?” she said. “Where did this happen? At Emmy Gardner’s?”

“No; Mother, have you any idea where Madeleine started out for to-night?”

“No; but she said she was going somewhere else before she went to Emmy Gardner’s.”

“Yes, she did. She went to a house in Washington Square.”

“Washington Square! Who in the world lives there?”

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“A Mr. Locke. Did she ever speak to you of him?”

In spite of himself the man’s voice trembled.

“No, never. Rosamond Sayre was here this evening—just after dinner.” Mrs. Selden said.

“Madame Sayre said she would meet Madame at Madame Gardner’s at eleven,” Claudine volunteered.

“And what time did she leave home?” Barham asked.

“About nine-thirty,” the maid answered.

The reports all tallied as to time. There could be no doubt that Madeleine had gone to Locke’s from her own home and of her own accord. But why?—why?”

“Who is Mr. Locke?” Mrs. Selden said, quietly enough now.

“He’s an artist. I wish, Mother, you’d try to sleep now—may Claudine perhaps give you a little chloral? You know you must be brave to-morrow—we have hard times before us—you and I.”

The man felt so drawn to her through their common tragedy that he showed an affection he had rarely if ever shown before.

But it had small effect on the half-crazed woman.

“You and I!” she cried, with a burst of hysterical laughter. “You pretend to weep for Madeleine—my beautiful Madeleine! You! You ruined her whole life!”

“How?” cried the man, stung by this injustice.

“Because you wouldn’t give her money! You, rolling in wealth, denied that precious baby a few paltry hundreds”

“I never did, Mother. Madeleine never asked me for a dollar and was refused.”

“She didn’t dare ask! She was afraid of you! You cowed her spirit—her beautiful spirit”

“What did Maddy want money for—more than I allowed

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 her?” he asked, a strange wonder clutching at his heart.

“For her Bridge games—her only pleasure. She had bad luck, poor child—she lost—oh, she lost thousands—”

“Mother! What are you saying? Madeleine lost thousands at Bridge!”

“Yes—time and again. I gave her all I had”

“There, there, dear, don’t let’s talk about this now. Let us both try to get some rest.”

“No! I don’t want to rest! I want to talk! Tell me more—tell me all—everything—just as if I had been there. What was this place? Was it a right place?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure they were all charming people”

The man was nearly beside himself, and said what he thought most likely to soothe her.

“Was it a musicale?”

“No”

But his very voice failed him, and Claudine took up the burden. “It was a Bal Masque, Madame Selden. And Madame, she looked so ravishing in a costume of silks and sequins and jewels”

Mrs. Selden again sat bolt upright and pointed her finger at Barham.

“And you sent her—my child—to the—oh, to the terrible funeral place, in that gewgaw costume!”

It was the first time Barham had realized this. It was terrible! Madeleine in her casket, in that gaudy robe! But he had been so engrossed in other and to him graver matters, he hadn’t even thought of that.

“How horrible!” Mrs. Selden broke out again. “How ghastly! You care nothing for my sensibilities. Go—go at once, and take proper clothing.”

“I will, mother,” the distressed man said, humbly. “What shall it be? A little white gown?”

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“Yes—” and then Mrs. Selden broke down and sobbed.

Yet in a moment another outbreak seemed imminent, and Barham feeling he could stand no more, and thinking he had done his duty, rose and left the room.

“Do all you can for her, Claudine,” he said, “and if she gets violent, call up the doctor. I can do no more. But I will get a gown and send down for Mrs. Barham. No, don’t come, I’ll find it. Stay with Madame Selden.”

And at last Andrew Barham closed the door upon the haven of his own room, alone.

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sat at his breakfast table.

After several hours of thinking, wondering, planning and sorrowing, he had been blessed with a short respite of fitful slumber, and now, though still in a state of mental chaos, he was outwardly composed.

He was relieved that Mother Selden had not joined him in the breakfast room, though she had sent him some messages. It was her custom to breakfast in bed, but he feared she would change her plan for to-day, and when she did not, he was glad. One of his problems was what to do about her continued presence under his roof.

He could not summarily dismiss Madeleine’s mother, as one would a servant, yet he couldn’t face years of solitude à deux with the unamiable lady. However, that was a future consideration—there were many more pressing.

“Hello, Drew—here I am—I just had to come! May I?”

Nick Nelson came into the room, pushing past the waitress, and grasping Barham’s hand.

Words of sympathy were unnecessary between these two friends, and Barham accepted the unspoken message he read in Nelson’s eyes.

“All in the papers?” Barham asked. “I haven’t seen them.”

“Yes; but I suppose garbled versions. Now, Drew, I’m here to help. Command me in any way you like. My time is all yours—and I needn’t tell you everything else I own is.”

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Nelson was a big, hearty, cheery sort, usually smiling, and the mere sight of his grave, solemn face, gave Barham a curious feeling as of looking at a stranger.

“I don’t know, yet, what you can do, Nick, but I know there’s a lot to be done. Have a cup of coffee, and let’s talk things over.”

Nelson, who was sharp-eyed, was pleased at this attitude. He had feared a more sensitive reserve, a hesitancy on Barham’s part to be receptive or responsive.

“First,” said Nelson, “who is this Locke?”

“He seems to be an artist, with a decent studio and a seemingly proper coterie of friends. That’s all I can tell you of him. The first thing, in my mind, is to find out how Madeleine came to know him—why she ever went there.”

“Madeleine went her own gait—” Nelson began.

“I know it. But, Nick, I always knew where she was. I didn’t cotton to her card-playing cronies—but they were all right. You know, the Gardners, the Sayres, the Thornleys—all that bunch are, at least, of our own people—not Bohemians.”

“Is this Washington Square place a Bohemian joint?”

“No, it isn’t; as I saw it. I mean it isn’t the Greenwich Village crowd. Though I met only one or two, beside the police people. But I gathered from the general atmosphere that it was the place of a working artist rather than a poseur. Still, I may be mistaken—and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Any studio on Washington Square seems to me a strange place to find my wife.”

“Did it occur to you, Drew, that she may have been—may have died somewhere else, and been taken there?”

“Don’t mince words, Nelson. Madeleine was murdered—the fact is terrible enough—why balk at the word. No, your suggestion isn’t tenable. She was seen there for

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 there are things about Madeleine that you have never known.”

Barham’s attitude changed to one of wonder.

“Tell me, Nick,” he said, briefly.

“Not here—come to some quieter place.”

But before the two men could have further talk, Detective Hutchins was announced.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said, politely, “but there are some questions I have to settle at once, Mr. Barham.”

“Very well, come into the library,” and Andrew Barham introduced Nelson, and the three sat down.

“To be through with this interview as quickly as possible, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said, “I’ll tell you where we stand. We, the police, have practically only two facts to work on—Mrs. Barham’s death, and the disappearance of Mr. Locke. Anything else we know is part and parcel of one of these two propositions. Now, it is self-evident that you cannot tell us anything about the whereabouts of Mr Locke. But I am obliged to ask you some questions regarding your wife’s life. I am sorry”

“Mr. Hutchins,” Andrew Barham said, quietly, “I will ask you to eliminate the personal equation entirely. I know it is from consideration of my feelings that you hesitate or apologize at introducing these subjects, but I assure you it will make it easier for me if you will say what is necessary, in a business-like way. I am quite ready to tell you what I can, but let us be brief and to the point.”

Hutchins’ respect and admiration for this man rose another point, and he said, simply, “I understand, Mr. Barham. Now, shall I speak before Mr. Nelson?”

“Certainly. I have no secrets regarding these things from him.”

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“Then can you tell me who invited Mrs. Barham to Mr. Locke’s studio party?”

“That I cannot. I should be glad to learn, myself. I had no idea she knew him, or knew any people who would be likely to attend the affair.”

“Yet she was there.”

“Not only that, Mr. Hutchins, but she went there voluntarily and from her own home. Her own maid dressed her in the Oriental costume, and her own chauffeur drove her there at her directions. All of this is as much a mystery to me as to you. Clear it up if you can.”

Though Barham’s voice was steady and his manner calm, Nelson noted the occasional clenching of his hands or biting of his lip, as if he held himself under control with difficulty.

“You’ve asked Mrs. Selden about it?” asked Nelson.

“That reminds me,” Hutchins put in, “I must ask to see Mrs. Selden. Shall I interview her later, or will you send for her now?”

Barham considered.

“As you like,” he said, “but Mrs. Selden is exceedingly nervous—even hysterical. Can you not excuse her?”

“No; it is imperative. And, it will save time,” he glanced at the library clock,“ if she will come here now.”

“Get her, will you, Nick?” Barham said, and Nelson left the room.

“Be careful with her,” Barham warned Hutchins. “She may be cool and collected, and yet, ready to fly into a passion at some simple remark.”

“I’ll manage her,” said the detective carelessly and confidently; yet when, a moment later, Marcia Selden appeared, he lost a little of his cocksure confidence in himself.

She came into the room, tall, stately, gowned in the deepest black, and her face was like a thundercloud. She

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 walked slowly across the room, unheeding the men as they rose, and seated herself in an armchair.

Hutchins said afterward, all he could think of was a Scripture verse that was something like, “Terrible as an army with banners!”

Nelson followed her in, and Claudine remained, uncertainly, on the threshold.

“Wait outside, Claudine,” Mrs. Selden said, “and close the door.”

“Now, sir,” she turned to Hutchins, unheeding Barham’s word of introduction, “who killed my daughter?”

But her speech didn’t frighten the detective as had the majesty of her appearance. Indeed, to him, that question placed her at once, as a mere foolish woman, and as such he answered her.

“We don’t know yet, Mrs. Selden, we are endeavoring to find out.”

“When will you know?”

“That I can’t say, but I am hoping that you can give us some help in our efforts to find the criminal.”

“You know the criminal! You know it was that artist person.”

“Have you any reason to think that, aside from the fact that her death occurred there?”

“Yes, the fact of his disappearance. Why else would he run away?”

“That is only negative evidence. However, it will be sifted. Now, Mrs. Selden, can you not tell me of any friend of your daughter’s who might invite her to that party? Mr. Barham is quite sure that her intimates are not to be found in that section of the city.”

“Indeed they are not! My daughter never went down there of her own accord”

“But she ordered her driver herself”

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“I know all that—but she was forced into it. Some one made her do it!”

“Oh, come now, mother,” Barham said, looking at her curiously, “how could that be? Who could so coerce Madeleine?”

“Call in that maid,” said Hutchins, who was getting a little excited.

“Claudine,” he said to her, quickly, “when you dressed Mrs. Barham for the masquerade, did she seem glad to be going or did she seem to be going unwillingly?”

Claudine hesitated and looked from one to another.

“Tell the truth,” said Barham, quietly, but Nelson saw him turn a shade paler as if he feared a revelation.

“Then,” the maid said, hesitatingly, “I can scarcely express it—yet it was this way; as if Madame wanted to go—yet feared it.”

“Feared it!” exclaimed Barham.

“Perhaps not that—” Claudine was really trying to give just the meaning she had in mind, “it was more as if Madame were about to make an experiment.”

“To go to such a place for the first time?” suggested Nelson.

“Yes, that is it. And she wanted to look her very best—and, still—she hesitated. Once or—yes, twice—she pushed me away, and said—‘I won’t go! Get me another gown.’ Then in an instant she said, ‘I will go! I must go!’ and she went through with it. When all arrayed, she looked so beautiful she was much pleased, and seemed eager then to go.”

“Inexplicable,” said Nelson, “but there was surely some influence at work, whether good or bad.”

“Of course there was!” Mrs. Selden cried hysterically. “And I have an idea that I know who is back of all this.”

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“You do, Mrs. Selden?” Hutchins was really startled. “Then you must tell at once.”

“I will,” and her voice grew louder. “There he sits! Andrew Barham! He never understood my poor daughter.”

“Hush, hush,” Nelson began, but Barham said, “Let her alone, Nick, it’s bound to come.”

“Yes,” the irate woman continued, “I don’t know how he worked it, but he had her decoyed down there and lured away to her death—my Madeleine, my baby!”

“You must interpret this outbreak as you see fit, Mr. Hutchins,” Barham said, with a weary dignity. “I assure you it is merely the vagary of a brain almost disordered by the shock and grief of the tragedy. Knowing Mrs. Selden as I do, it doesn’t entirely surprise me, but I will state that it is utterly untrue. I have no idea why my wife went to Mr. Locke’s last night. That is my statement.”

Few could look at the distressed but fearless face, few could note the straightforward, even defiant manner and not be convinced the man spoke the truth.

But Hutchins was a wary sort, and he was quick to follow up any new line.

He nodded sidewise to Barham, but addressed himself to Mrs. Selden, thinking, and rightly, that any moment might bring an outburst of hysterics and he could learn no more.

“Why would Mr. Barham do this, Mrs. Selden?” Hutchins asked, making his voice as matter-of-fact as he could.

“Maddy was a gambler,” Mrs. Selden said, looking at him out of eyes that now stared piercingly, and again glared wildly about the room, “a terrible gambler. Poor baby, it was the only happiness she had. Her husband neglected her”

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“I protest!” Nelson cried. “That is not true! The reverse is the truth”

“Be still, Nick,” Barham was very white and quiet, “let her tell what she will.”

Something in his calm voice quelled Mrs. Selden and she suddenly became like a whimpering child. “Well, anyway,” she said, “they didn’t get on. He was good to her—yes, I must admit that—but—oh, well, she did waste a lot of money. Poor little Maddy, what gown did you pick out for her, Drew? That white China crêpe?”

“Yes, mother,” and Barham spoke as gently as if she had not arraigned him so cruelly.

“And we must have flowers—lots of valley lilies—and white lilac—Maddy loved white lilac”

“Yes, Mother, that will all be attended to.”

“Attended to! How thoughtless you are of my wishes, Andrew. I want to attend to it myself. No one but me shall pick out Maddy’s flowers”

“I know,” Barham said, patiently, “but don’t you remember, Mother, the florist is coming here to consult you”

“When? When, Drew?”

“This afternoon, at three o’clock. You asked me to order him to do so, you sent me the message by Claudine this morning.”

“So I did—when I first woke up. I dreamed about it. Well, Drew, dear, you’re a good boy. Maybe you didn’t kill Maddy—I mean, maybe”

Gravely listening, and closely watching Mrs. Selden, Hutchins slowly drew his pencil through some lines he had written.

“I think her conversation cannot be reported, Mr. Barham,” he said; “she is not responsible.”

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He had not meant this to be heard by the now silent woman.

But it was, and she turned on him in fury.

“Not responsible, young man! I! Marcia Selden! How dare you say such a thing! I’ll have you arrested—get out of this house this instant! I am entirely responsible! I have more brains in a minute than you’ll have in a thousand years! I know what I’m talking about. Indeed I do!”

“Oh, Mother,” Barham’s patience began to give way, “do stop this tirade. Please be more quiet.”

Again her voice rose to a shriek.

“Brute! Unnatural man! My child is killed, and he says, ‘Be quiet!’ I won’t be quiet! I will say what I think!”

“Then say it without me,” and Barham rose and left the room.

“Follow him, Mr. Nelson,” Hutchins said, quickly, “it may not be a bad plan.”

Nelson went, and the detective tried to ingratiate himself with Marcia Selden.

Claudine sat beside her, trying to soothe her, but with small success.

“Now, dear lady,” he said, “you tell me anything you can to help me, and then you go away and rest before the florist comes to see you. You’ve a lot to attend to, with him, you know. Were you in your daughter’s confidence? Did she ever tell you about her acquaintance with Mr. Locke?”

For a long moment Marcia Selden looked at him.

Hutchins knew that his fate was in the balance. She might respond to his advances and give him her confidence and she might fly into a rage at him.

“No,” she said, at last, “she never told me of

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 any such person. She never mentioned such a place as a studio on Washington Square. I don’t believe she had ever been there before. And perhaps I was too hard on Mr. Barham. He was never unkind to his wife. They were probably as fond of each other as most married people.”

Hutchins was amazed. Surely, this was the talk of a rational woman.

“Does Mr. Barham play cards?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual, though it was of importance to him.

“Not much. He plays Bridge, but an indifferent game. My daughter was a brilliant player—a renowned player. But she had bad luck—always. And she lost.”

“Large sums?”

“Oh, yes, enormous.”

“And Mr. Barham objected?”

“He didn’t know it. At least he didn’t know how very large they were.”

“How did she pay them?”

“I gave her money frequently—then, of course, sometimes she won—and sometimes, I think, she borrowed from her friends.”

“And from me,” Claudine said, unable to resist the temptation to speak. “Many times did I lend Madame the money for the gamble.”

“Did she repay you?” asked Hutchins.

“Sometimes, not always.”

“Some is still due you, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hush, Claudine, it will be paid, as you well know. How dare you say a word against that sainted child! My Madeleine! My baby!”

Hutchins had already had enough experience to know that this was the precursor to another tantrum, and he

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 fled the room, leaving the now screaming woman to the ministrations of the despairing maid.

“You see how matters stand, Mr. Hutchins,” Barham said, as the detective found him and Nelson in an adjoining room. “Mrs. Selden is not demented, but she is irrational at times, mostly because of this shock—but also owing to her naturally excitable disposition and inflammable temper. You may make such use of her statements as you see fit, but in justice to myself, I must ask that you verify them by some more competent testator before you accept them as true.”

“I have no intention of reporting anything Mrs. Selden said,” the detective told him. “I am convinced for myself that she cannot control her speech when the frenzy comes upon her. Moreover, a few moments ago, after you left the room, she greatly modified her expressions of vituperation. Now, I am due at the inquiry to be held in Mr. Locke’s place at eleven o’clock this morning. You need not come, Mr. Barham, but you should be represented.”

“I will represent him,” Nelson said, promptly. “I am a lawyer, and I will do all that is necessary. Also, I will be responsible for Mr. Barham in any and every way.”

“Thank you, Nick—I’m glad to have you help me out like that. Mr. Hutchins, what is this Mr. Locke like? Do you know him?”

“No; nor can I seem to find any picture of him. But I’m told that he is of what is called the artist type—long hair, big glasses, low collar and flowing tie.”

Nelson smiled at the graphic description. “I didn’t know that sort grew nowadays,” he said, “outside the cartoons.”

“They do in Washington Square—lots of them.”

“Do you gather that he is a—a gentleman?” Barham continued.

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“I do gather that,” Hutchins said, “and partly because I spent last night—what was left of it—in his room, and made use of his bed and bath. One can judge a man by such things, and I gathered that he was of decent, even refined habits—yet, of course, that does not preclude his being a criminal.”

Hutchins spoke thoughtfully; and added, “Also, he has a jolly good sort of servant.”

“What sort?” said Barham.

“A Chinese boy; devoted to his master, neat and efficient, and about as talkative as a steamed clam.”

“Still, he ought to be made to tell you of Locke,” Nelson said.

“Yes—but after all, it isn’t so important to be told about Locke as to find him.”

“Telling of him may lead to finding him.”

“It may, but I don’t think the Chinese can tell anything of importance. I’m quite sure he doesn’t know where Locke is. But we’ll find him yet. That I do feel sure of.”

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Hutchins reached the Locke apartment the inquiry was already in progress. Doctor Babcock was conducting it, and though an able and shrewd questioner, he was glad of Hutchins’s presence.

For Lieutenant Hutchins was looked upon as one of the most far-seeing and quick-witted of the Homicide Squad of the Detective Bureau, and Babcock wanted him to hear every word of the evidence.

Not that there was much evidence. It was a baffling case.

Thomas Locke seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, and yet except for the fact of that vanishing there was no reason to connect him in any way with the murder of Madeleine Barham.

No proof; indeed, no suggestion of acquaintance between the two could be discovered.

The medical examiner well knew that it was not an unknown case for a wife to have friends of whom her husband knew nothing, but that fact couldn’t prove any thing in the present instance.

All the guests of the night before had been allowed to go to their homes because of the utter absence of any sort of evidence to warrant their detention or even further questioning, except for three friends, who were said to be Locke’s intimates.

These three, Miss Vallon, Miss Cutler and Mr. Post, had been summoned to the inquiry, and Rodman Jarvis, of course, was there.

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