way,” he frankly admitted, “but I do know this. If this thing is a real tip-topper among scarabs—and I think it is—a connoisseur would know all about it, and probably know this identical specimen. They’re all recorded—the famous ones.”
Hutchins looked surprised at this erudition on Dickson’s part.
“Then we can trace it,” he said.
“Yes—if it is a famous one. Take it up to the Metropolitan Museum, that’s the quickest and surest way to find out. Now, as to the glove—and there’s another sure fire clue. Haven’t you an odd glove in your collection of trinkets found on or near the spot?”
“Yes—and it seems to be a mate to this one. But that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Not alone, but in connection with the fact that Miss Cutler hid this glove, and the other was found right where she was seen to be—well, it’s decidedly cumulative evidence! Now, what we want is some—even one connecting link—between the artist and Mrs. Barham. Until we get that—why, any other man at the party may have been the villain of this tale, instead of Locke.”
“It was his scarab.”
“Yes—that’s so—and doubtless the whole tragedy centers around him. But, we must get a thread of connection, somehow. If you should go to Mr. Barham again—or to that Nelson—wouldn’t they tell you if they have run across anything?”
“I should think so—but Mr. Barham is getting queer about it all. At first he was ready to move heaven and earth to learn how or why his wife came to go to that party. Also he offered the reward, you know, for Locke. Also, he was keen to find and punish the murderer. But
