too, such things run in families—and he impersonated his brother to get something here in the house.”
“I never thought that brother person was really a brother,” Hutchins said, gloomily. Things were getting beyond his ken.
“Where’s the girl’s picture?” Glenn cried, looking around. “Ha! It was Locke—he took the picture—the painting of the Cutler girl! That’s what he was after! Oh, these young lovers!”
“Bah, I don’t believe it. It’s too foolish. What was it. A photograph?”
“No; a little painting—pretty—almost like a miniature. I think Locke painted it himself”
“I think he didn’t. He paints landscapes”
“Some artists do both. Well, maybe he didn’t paint it—but it’s gone, and I’ll bet he took it. He stopped at that table—where it stood—the last thing before he left the room.”
“Maybe he took it then—but it’s of small importance. The fact that Locke is in love with the little Cutler girl—or she with him—hasn’t much to do with our finding the murderer of Mrs. Barham. That’s what I’m after.”
“Well, I think this wig business and this fellow that broke in last night are important matters. And I’ll bet old Dickson’ll think so too. Don’t pass it up, Hutchins—sleuth it out. If it was Locke why did he come, and”
“And if it wasn’t Locke, why didn’t he? But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Put it up to Charley. See if he knows anything about it. Maybe Locke always wore a wig. Maybe he wanted to affect that long hair business and couldn’t do it on his own.”
Charley came at their summons and gazed stolidly at the wig when asked to observe it.
“Whose is it, Charley.”
