Carolyn Wells

“ The Chinaman saw her bending over the body. He saw her take the scarab, which afterward was found hidden in her room. Also, the pair of stained gloves are her size. Also the bronze book-end has been photographed for finger prints—and it shows the prints of Miss Cutler’s fingers.”
“I don’t believe it!” Andrew Barham sat up straight, and spoke so strongly that Nelson looked at him curiously.
“Why, Drew, what’s the great excitement?”
“Only that I’m a champion of women—all women, as you know. And I think it’s outrageous to arrest that girl—almost a child, you tell me—for a crime of that sort!” ”

“ Andrew Barham advised himself.
Nick Nelson came in later.
“I’ve been trying to find that brother of Locke’s,” he said, “I thought I might get a line on the artist through him.
Barham laughed, the first time Nick had seen him laugh since the tragedy.
“You’ll probably never see him again,” he said, and then he related the incident as it happened.
“Why were you so sure he was an impostor?” Nelson asked.
“Oh, he had all the earmarks of the professional vulture. They run around to find people who die or disappear without relatives, and then they try to claim the property. ”

“ I know what awful burdens you have to bear.”
“Pshaw—I’m not whining. I have problems—but they must be faced. I can face them. What I’d like, would be to run away for a day or two and think things out by myself. How’d that be?”
“Well—” Nelson hesitated, “don’t go until after they’ve settled their minds about that scarab business. You don’t seem to realize, Drew, they really think you took a rare one and returned to Hutchins a much less valuable specimen.” ”

“ The girl described minutely the design on Locke’s scarab—she says he did consider it his lucky piece—and the figures on the one Hutchins has now are quite dissimilar.”
“My dear Nick, no one who hasn’t studied scarabs can tell one from another—least of all, a little bob-haired girl with a turn-up nose. Why not suspect the Chinaman. ”

“ The caller began to fidget a little under this direct catechism, and Andrew Barham smiled.
Then he said, “I think there’s some mistake, Mr.—er—Locke. Your brother cannot be the artist we are interested in. You see, the artist, Tommy Locke, was born in Massachusetts. ”

“ Healthier. Well, as for the rest, she’s a little thing—and she dresses in that studio style, but she gets away with it. And—she’s nobody’s fool.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean she’s sensible and straightforward—though I believe if you’d know her well, she’s full of the devil—capers, I mean. ”