Barham drew a long sigh, and brushed his hand across
his eyes.
“Then,” he said, and he looked at the policemen in turn, as if arraigning them, “then you conclude it was—murder?”
“We do, sir,” Dickson answered.
“Then move heaven and earth to find out who did it! Spare no time, pains or expense. Who would—who could have reason to kill a woman like that? But, strangest of all is her presence in this place, that has yet to be ex plained. Everything has yet to be explained. Are any of her friends here—in the other room?”
“No, Mr. Barham, everybody in the other room declares he or she never saw Mrs. Barham before.”
Again the man seemed so blankly bewildered as to be on the verge of losing his mind.
But he wasn’t. Andrew Barham was unutterably amazed, astounded—but he wasn’t yet dazed. His mind was thinking with lightning quickness.
“Who did it?” he demanded again. “You must have some suspicion—some slight clue!”
“We have no suspicion, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins told him, “and as to clues or evidence, we’ve not been able to go into those things yet. Think, it only happened less than two hours ago.”
“Less than two hours ago! Then why wasn’t I told sooner?”
“Because nobody knew who she was.”
“Nobody knew my wife! In a house where she had come as a guest!”
“No, nobody knew her.”
“The host? Didn’t he know her?”
“The host—Mr. Locke, cannot be found.”
Andrew Barham dropped into a chair.
