be for all I know, he could easily keep himself hidden—even if he stayed right here in New York. Why, if he were to cut his hair short and raise a mustache, say, and lose his big glasses—his own mother wouldn’t know him. He is in no way a distinguished looking man—I mean, he isn’t distinctive looking.”
“Even as you and I,” Nelson said smiling.
Jarvis looked at him.
“Either you or I would find it harder to disguise ourselves than Locke,” he said; “we’re of stronger peculiarities.”
“But why do you think Locke is under necessity of such procedure?” Nelson asked; “do you assume that he is responsible for the crime?”
“I don’t quite say that,” Jarvis returned, slowly, “but I don’t see any other way to look.”
“What about that girl?” Nelson asked; “the little, pretty one?”
“Pearl Jane? Oh, she’s an innocent baby. I know her. She did get into the room—and she doubtless felt curiosity—or maybe wanted to be helpful, thinking some one had fainted. She’s all right—that child, but she is in love with Tommy.”
“And he with her?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s nothing positive about it. I’m romantic—and I’ve thought lately I sensed a dawning romance there; but maybe not—maybe not.”
And now the authorities were looking over the trinkets found at or near the scene of the crime.
No one present claimed the glove or the fan or the mask or the vanity case—but the examiner was not surprised.
They were all of small value, and to claim them might
