“Locke’s sleeve! Why, you haven’t told me half! Locke’s sleeve!”
“I mean the sleeve of the costume he wore at the ball. The monk’s robe—not his own coat. You see, he flung the robe to the Chinese servant as he left, and they afterward found a smear of blood on the front of it.”
“What do the Square people think about their fellow artist? Do they suspect him?”
“They seem not to know much about him. They seem not to know much about one another. As Jarvis says, they keep pretty much to themselves and when they get together for an occasional hobnob, they just talk shop.”
“I see.” Barham didn’t appear deeply interested.
“And then, too, it seems this Locke is in the habit of going off on sketching trips or something and staying for days at a time.”
“I suppose all that’s in my stenographer’s report—I’ve not had time to read it yet. Now, Nick, as to hushing up this miserable business of Maddy’s. Shall I go to see the women, and beg or bribe them to keep still about it?”
“Can’t I go for you—I hate to have you subjected to”
“I don’t care what I’m subjected to—and, of course, you understand, it’s for her sake—hers and her mother’s. I could bear it, if I had to, the nine days’ wonder and all that—but I can’t have my dead wife’s name held up to scorn if I can prevent it by any possible means. Any suggestions, old chap?”
Nelson looked at the man before him. Barham’s fine face was set in that firm way his friends knew so well. Not so much stubbornness as bulldog determination and per severance. Nelson knew that Andrew would move heaven and earth so far as he was able, to save his wife’s reputation.
