Nelson was a big, hearty, cheery sort, usually smiling, and the mere sight of his grave, solemn face, gave Barham a curious feeling as of looking at a stranger.
“I don’t know, yet, what you can do, Nick, but I know there’s a lot to be done. Have a cup of coffee, and let’s talk things over.”
Nelson, who was sharp-eyed, was pleased at this attitude. He had feared a more sensitive reserve, a hesitancy on Barham’s part to be receptive or responsive.
“First,” said Nelson, “who is this Locke?”
“He seems to be an artist, with a decent studio and a seemingly proper coterie of friends. That’s all I can tell you of him. The first thing, in my mind, is to find out how Madeleine came to know him—why she ever went there.”
“Madeleine went her own gait—” Nelson began.
“I know it. But, Nick, I always knew where she was. I didn’t cotton to her card-playing cronies—but they were all right. You know, the Gardners, the Sayres, the Thornleys—all that bunch are, at least, of our own people—not Bohemians.”
“Is this Washington Square place a Bohemian joint?”
“No, it isn’t; as I saw it. I mean it isn’t the Greenwich Village crowd. Though I met only one or two, beside the police people. But I gathered from the general atmosphere that it was the place of a working artist rather than a poseur. Still, I may be mistaken—and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Any studio on Washington Square seems to me a strange place to find my wife.”
“Did it occur to you, Drew, that she may have been—may have died somewhere else, and been taken there?”
“Don’t mince words, Nelson. Madeleine was murdered—the fact is terrible enough—why balk at the word. No, your suggestion isn’t tenable. She was seen there for
