so it is only as a fellow artist that I can tell you much about him. He is a chap who enjoys himself wherever he is. Who is ready to take his part and do his share always. But I’ve never known him to talk about himself or to draw attention to himself—except as it might follow a discussion of his work. He is an earnest and a painstaking painter, though as yet he has not made a name for himself in the Art world. Perhaps once a week, a few of us congregate here and jabber on art topics. A party, such as was held last night, is most unusual for Locke to give though he often has smaller gatherings. He goes away a great deal—I don’t know where, but I fancy off on sketching tours—or perhaps to visit friends. I have often telephoned him here and received no answer. But that is the way with most of us down here. We are a lawless lot, so far as the laws of convention are concerned.”
“Then you know nothing, Mr. Post, concerning Mr. Locke’s family, relatives or more intimate friends?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And you have no idea where he is at this moment?”
“Not the slightest.”
Both Jarvis and Nick Nelson watched Post carefully as he made this last statement, but neither could detect by so much as the quiver of an eyelash that the man was telling other than the exact truth. Indeed, his whole manner and attitude was frank and straightforward, and Nelson, who was a good reader of character, felt that Post knew no more of Locke than he had declared.
Miss Vallon was questioned next.
Her story was much the same as Henry Post’s.
She gave the impression that she and Miss Cutler, Mr. Post and Mr. Locke formed a sort of informal quartette. That they dined together perhaps once a fortnight or so, and afterward spent the evening in Locke’s studio, discussing
