Nick Nelson, present in the interests of Barham, looked about curiously.
The pleasant, roomy studio, with its untheatrical furnishings, attracted him, and he marveled at the absence of the conventional claptrap. He sat next to Jarvis, and the two struck up a passing acquaintance.
Chinese Charley was interviewed first.
“He’ll tell nothing, whether he can or not,” Nelson said to his neighbor.
“If he knows anything, they’ll get it out of him,” Jarvis argued.
And they did. It wasn’t very much, but by dint of threats and hints of punishment they succeeded in getting what seemed like a straight story from the Chinaman.
It was to the effect that Locke had, about half past ten, come down the front stairs, found Charley, and given him the monk’s robe, with orders to hang it in the closet. Locke had then taken his hat and light topcoat and had walked out of the front door, as the caterer’s doorman had told Hutchins.
But after that, Charley knew no more concerning the doings of his master. He, himself, had run away home at sight of the policeman, but next morning, from a sense of duty, or from force of habit, had turned up at his usual hour of six o’clock.
“Isn’t that very early?” asked Babcock. “I thought artists were a late crowd.”
“I have much to do,” Charley returned, gravely. “I clean all—I sweep, dust—make all pleasant. Then the breakfast.”
“I see. And was Mr. Locke always ready for his breakfast?”
“If here. Not always here.”
“Ah, away part of the time?”
