“Will you detail your movements that evening?” Lane asked him.
“Certainly. I was at home for dinner. Afterward, I went to the Club—you remember, Nick, I talked with you a few moments. After that I merely left the Club, walked a block or two, took a taxi, made the necessary changes in my appearance while in the taxi. That is, I did so in part. As I reached the studio before any guests arrived, I could fix myself up at my leisure.”
“One moment, Mr. Barham. Was part of your disguise a change in your especially white teeth?”
“Yes;” and Barham looked surprised at the question. “I had a small vial of a brown colored preparation. A swallow of that and my teeth were stained rather darker than they really are. I confess I became a bit of an expert at it.”
“And you used pumice stone to remove that brown stain. It was the pumice stone in your studio bathroom that helped me to my conclusions.”
“Right,” and Barham smiled a little ruefully. “I was not very clever, was I? But, as I told you, I really had no very great fear of discovery. I mean, if, or when I was discovered, I was ready to admit it all. However, to resume. By the time the guests arrived, I was completely my other self, and arrayed in my monk’s robe. Then the party began.”
Barham paused, as if unable to go on with his recital.
But Lane was waiting, eager and anxious for the rest.
“I didn’t enjoy the party much,” Barham said; “I care little for dancing and the whole thing bored me.”
“And then your wife came,” Lane said, pointedly.
Andrew Barham looked the detective straight in the eye.
