because her whole attitude toward me of late had been kinder and more pleasant than usual.”
“Yet it might have been that she suspected your deception,” Lane said.
“Yes, it might be,” Barham agreed. “I’ve thought over that a great deal, but I can come to no conclusion.”
“And that night, Mr. Barham, when you left the studio party you came directly home?”
“I did. I took a bus on Fifth Avenue which came up to my own door. I rode a few blocks past, and walked back. I let myself in with my latchkey, and went at once to my room and to bed.”
“You refuse to tell why you left the party?”
“I refuse.”
“Very well, go on.”
“I had been in bed less than an hour, when my man called me to the telephone, and I heard the astounding news that my wife was dead—or, as they put it, fatally injured—in my own studio! I was absolutely stunned with amazement. Understand, I had no idea she was there when I left the place.”
“Mr. Barham, that is the one point of your story that I can’t believe!”
“I believe it!” Nelson cried. “I know it is true if you say so, Drew. Go on.”
“That’s all there is to tell. I went down there at the summons of the police, and I found my wife there—dead. I cannot tell you of my surprise and horror—and bewilderment. Nor do I yet understand why she was there.”
“And after all that—Mr. Barham, you returned to the studio in your disguise?”
“I went down first in my rightful name. I went with Mr. Nelson, in hopes I might find my scarab, which I greatly prized, and which I knew would be recognized as
