of a decently tidy man of moderate tastes in every way.
“Colorless chap,” Hutchins said, disgustedly; “hardest kind in the world to trace. Now, if he had frisky pictures on his walls, or Bolshevik books hidden in his dresser, we might look for something decided. But these every-dayish, plain American citizen fellows—where are you?”
“If he’s an artist, he ought to have some personality,” Dickson suggested.
“Probably has, as to temperament and all that. But I don’t believe he’s much of an artist—I’ve never heard the name—have you?”
“No; but there are hundreds of artists within two blocks of this place whose names haven’t been heard around the world—as yet. Let’s look in the bathroom—may surprise his secrets there.”
“Nixy!” and Hutchins looked his discouragement. “I deduce that he is a man who uses soap and water, who shaves himself with a safety razor, and uses pumice stone on his teeth.”
The last after a peep into a small jar on the glass shelf.
“Well, then to the scene of the crime next.”
“You see,” Hutchins explained, as he drew away the protecting chairs, “I fenced this place off because I thought those hoodlums would trample it, like cattle on a picnic field. But it seems to be intact. Yet I daresay it will show up just about nothing.”
“Mostly spangles,” Dickson observed, looking at the glittering specks on the rug.
“Are they from that rig of Mrs. Barham’s?”
“No”; Dickson knew more about these things than Hutchins. “No, hers were iridescent—these are silver-colored—tin, probably.”
He picked up a few.
