his going off—and did go off. And we must think that when he said, so pleasantly to the door man, ‘Back in a minute,’ that he had no intention of coming back in a thousand years!”
“Then he is the murderer?”
“Oh, we can’t go so fast as that—but he must be in on the game somehow. Maybe there’s a lot more to this than we thought at first.”
“A gang?”
“No, idiot, not that! At least, I can’t see that element in it. But Locke was—oh, can’t you see Locke was—is something more than a mere artist?”
“No, I can’t see it. But that doesn’t matter. He won’t be back here, whatever he is. Probably he’s on the rolling deep by this time.”
“Probably. Now, you continue to hold the fort here—and incidentally keep an eye on that slant-eyed innocent, and I’ve another errand.”
Straight to Kate Vallon’s the detective went, and learned that Miss Cutler had returned to her own roof-tree.
As this was only a pair of rooms, above those of Miss Vallon’s own, Hutchins skipped up there and demanded admittance.
The girl who opened the door to him looked very different from the scared, forlorn young woman whom he had previously interviewed, and also from the girl who had testified at the inquiry.
She was, though not exactly smiling, at least in a satisfied, contented frame of mind, and Hutchins, though scarcely invited, went in and sat down in her tiny studio.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, in that kindly way of his, “give me just a moment, without making a fuss about it, won’t you?”
“Surely,” she said, and sat quietly down opposite him
