“She had her sleeve in it then—I saw a smear on it that looked like blood.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it was. More likely red rouge or lipstick.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I may get something about Locke from her and the Vallon girl. They are thick with him—and Henry Post is too.”
“That’s the dope. Then as soon as it’s late enough for society people, I suppose you’ll go up to the Barhams’ house.”
“Yes; I suppose so. Yet what can he tell me? That man was flabbergasted. There was no make-believe about his utter astonishment at finding his wife in this house.”
“I agree to that. Now go home and get some sleep—unless you’d rather bunk here?”
“I believe I will. I’ll appropriate Mr. Locke’s bedroom and bath and then if his nibs returns stealthily in the small hours, I’ll be here to receive him.”
“Very well, I’ll go home. Get around to the Vallon place as early as they’ll let you, and then make for the Barhams’.”
Snugly ensconced in Tommy Locke’s bed, Hutchins found that he could rest but he couldn’t sleep.
So he let his mind play with his problems, building up fantastic air castles, in hope of striking an idea that might be really illuminative.
He was strongly tempted to get up and scrape over the house again, but, he argued, he would probably find nothing, and would only prevent the resting of his tired nerves.
But he vowed a mighty vow, that he would put all his best energies and all his most tireless and indefatigable efforts into this thing, and improve this chance that had come to him to make good.
