I see it, she’s a hero worshiper and he’s her hero. Which is a very different matter.”
“But she must be kept in view,” Hutchins persisted.
“Keep her, then. I incline more to the idea that Locke is somehow mixed up with Mrs, Barham’s affairs. It may be indirectly—but she never went to that party without some big vital reason for going.
“You see, all her relatives, all her friends are dumfounded with amazement at her being there at all. Now, if it had been some foolish escapade, they would have known of it—or, say, have known of her predilection for that sort of thing. Instead of which, they’re all open-mouthed with surprise at her going. Now, add the fact that she dressed for it with greatest care and even expense—that Oriental rig cost a pretty penny!—and you must come to the conclusion that it was a big occasion for her. It meant a lot to her—whatever the lot was.”
“Looks that way.”
“Also, from your own story, she hesitated, even as she was getting ready. Her maid says she almost gave up the project. But she didn’t give it up—she carried it through. Common sense must tell us that she didn’t expect to meet her death there—but she did expect great things of some sort. There’s no other way to dope it out.”
Hutchins agreed to that, and went away to think it over.
Moreover, he wanted to give the rooms another look, with the purpose of finding something of Mrs. Barham’s, of indicative value. Perhaps she had left some papers—notes—no, she wouldn’t do that. Well, any way, he went down to the studio.
He was met by a very much disgusted caretaker and guard whom Dickson had stationed there for the day.
