“A Mr. Locke. Did she ever speak to you of him?”
In spite of himself the man’s voice trembled.
“No, never. Rosamond Sayre was here this evening—just after dinner.” Mrs. Selden said.
“Madame Sayre said she would meet Madame at Madame Gardner’s at eleven,” Claudine volunteered.
“And what time did she leave home?” Barham asked.
“About nine-thirty,” the maid answered.
The reports all tallied as to time. There could be no doubt that Madeleine had gone to Locke’s from her own home and of her own accord. But why?—why?”
“Who is Mr. Locke?” Mrs. Selden said, quietly enough now.
“He’s an artist. I wish, Mother, you’d try to sleep now—may Claudine perhaps give you a little chloral? You know you must be brave to-morrow—we have hard times before us—you and I.”
The man felt so drawn to her through their common tragedy that he showed an affection he had rarely if ever shown before.
But it had small effect on the half-crazed woman.
“You and I!” she cried, with a burst of hysterical laughter. “You pretend to weep for Madeleine—my beautiful Madeleine! You! You ruined her whole life!”
“How?” cried the man, stung by this injustice.
“Because you wouldn’t give her money! You, rolling in wealth, denied that precious baby a few paltry hundreds”
“I never did, Mother. Madeleine never asked me for a dollar and was refused.”
“She didn’t dare ask! She was afraid of you! You cowed her spirit—her beautiful spirit”
“What did Maddy want money for—more than I allowed
