“No; I’m telling you the truth. You don’t see that sort of skin among our sort of women.”
“Could be, if they didn’t overdo the rouge pots.”
“No, it’s different. Healthier. Well, as for the rest, she’s a little thing—and she dresses in that studio style, but she gets away with it. And—she’s nobody’s fool.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean she’s sensible and straightforward—though I believe if you’d know her well, she’s full of the devil—capers, I mean. She has a jolly little gleam in her eye”
“Well, considering you saw her only once, at the Inquest, you took her in rather completely.”
“Do quit fumbling in that desk drawer, Drew! What is the matter with you? Are you hunting for a letter or something?”
“No,” and Barham let go the papers, and pushed the drawer shut. “Go on, Nick. You’re here for something special. Out with it.”
“All right—out it is. The truth is, Drew, Hutchins thinks you exchanged those scarabs. He thinks when you took Locke’s into the other room to look it up in your book, that you substituted a less valuable stone.”
“Oh, he does, does he? Well, old chap, what do you think? Am I given to petty thievery? Would I be likely to steal a scarab from a poor artist—or from the police?”
“Of course not, Drew, don’t be silly. But I thought maybe you could help trace it. I think that somehow Locke has managed to get it back and he has made the substitution.”
“You’re sure there was a substitution?”
“It looks that way. The girl described minutely the design on Locke’s scarab—she says he did consider it his lucky piece—and the figures on the one Hutchins has now are quite dissimilar.”
