to sweep or dust, lest he disturb what might eventually be clues or evidence.
“Uninteresting place,” Barham said, glancing round the studio. “No color—no atmosphere.”
“Now, I like it,” Nelson said. “It is restful compared to the glaring and tawdry effects in many such places.”
“Well, go on with your sleuthing, Nick, I’ll watch you,” and Barham sat down in one of the fireside chairs.
Nelson looked a little at a loss, but began to make a raid on a desk that stood in a corner.
“Here’s a big bunch of letters, Drew, you look these over, while I dig up more.”
But inside of ten minutes Barham informed him that the sheaf contained nothing at all but receipted bills for canvases, paints and brushes.
Nor did further search produce anything of more importance. Nelson went back to the smoking room—and, disinclined to go there again, Barham remained in the studio. Hutchins followed Nelson, hoping to get a grain or a nugget of information.
Left to himself, Barham opened a few of the cabinet drawers. Nelson had been through them all and, as he said, they held nothing but painting things or trifling knickknacks.
“Where’s the Chinaman?” Nelson asked, as they returned to Barham.
“It’s his day off,” Hutchins explained. “Though he has most days off now. He doesn’t seem to know what to do. You know he heard from Locke, Mr. Barham?”
“No, did he?”
“Yes, and Locke said he could pay the small bills—the Chink has petty cash—and that he, Locke, would settle the larger accounts.”
“Then, Mr. Hutchins, you must realize that Locke will
