thinking aloud, and used Glenn merely as a target for his speech. “So I’m more than ever convinced that Locke is our man, and that his murder of Mrs. Barham was premeditated and prearranged. Now, here’s that Yellow Streak again! What is it, Charley?”
“I talk you, alone, Misser Hutch.”
“No, I don’t think you will. You’ll talk to me right here before Mr. Glenn. He’s my brother and my father and my grandmother.”
“Yes, sir. Then, Misser Hutch, I ask you help me. I know things.”
“Oho, you do! Well, Charley, if you know things, I’m the man to help you. And whatever you know, out with it. You may forget it.”
“No, I no forget.”
The Chinaman was serious now, and obviously deeply troubled.
Hutchins winked at Glenn but said no word, fearing to disturb Charley’s thoughts—which, on the whole, promised to be interesting when divulged.
“I have errand to do for Misser Locke,” he said at last. “I no can do—alone.”
“All right,” Hutchins said, cheerfully, “I’ll help you. Do we start now?”
But Charley looked graver still, and shook his head.
“It’s to the lady,” he divulged. “The pretty little lady.”
“Miss Cutler?” Hutchins guessed.
“Yes, Missee Cutler.”
“See here, Charley, is she Mr. Locke’s girl—you know—sweetheart?”
“I donno. But Misser Locke he want his—his jewel thing—his Luckee—and Missee Cutler—she got it.”
The secret came out in a burst of confidence, and his tale
