Hutchins went to the task he dreaded, that of interviewing Miss Cutler.
He well knew Miss Vallon intended to shield the girl all she could from the least or slightest inconvenience.
And sure enough, when he arrived, Miss Vallon met him in the living room, which was the studio of her tiny apartment, with the word that Miss Cutler was not yet awake.
“And she is so worn out, I want her to sleep,” Kate purred on, pleasantly, “won’t I do? I can tell you all she could.”
Hutchins came to the conclusion that directness was best with this type of woman—so he said:
“Miss Vallon, you will do up to a certain pitch—and maybe past it. But if I find it necessary to question Miss Cutler personally let me assure you it will be far better for her to consent to see me than to continue to refuse.”
Kate Vallon paled a little, but she only said:
“Very well, question me.”
“I come to you, because I understand you and Miss Cutler and Mr. Post are Mr. Locke’s nearest friends, in this district, at least. I am told by the caterer’s people that you ordered the supper, and such things as that betoken intimacy. Now, Miss Vallon, do you know where Mr. Locke is?”
“I have not the faintest idea.”
Hutchins said nothing to that, but his thought was, “And you wouldn’t tell me if you had!”
“Do you think Miss Cutler or Mr. Post knows?”
“I am sure Miss Cutler does not, and I am sure Mr. Post did not when I last saw him, which was when he brought us home last night.”
“Does Mr. Post propose to try to find out?”
“That I don’t know. You would better ask him.”
“I intend to. Now, Miss Vallon, first of all, why are you
