Carolyn Wells

“ Many a man lives a double life of far more ignominy and shame.”
“There was no ignominy, no shame,” said Barham, gravely, “but it was deceit—and I am not naturally a deceitful man. I could look at it all calmly and dispassionately while I was down at the studio, but whe n I was at home, at my own table, with those two unsuspecting women, I felt the veriest scoundrel on the face of the earth.”
“Well you’re not!” and Nelson again grasped the hand of his friend.
“I agree to that,” said Lane, looking earnestly at Barham. “But now—will you tell us all you know about the night of the masquerade?” ”

“ Nelson responded, gloomily. “My friend Mr. Barham is not pleased at my bringing you into the matter.”
“I knew it, and I am not surprised. You see, his secret was safe, until my advent. Without undue conceit, I may say I feel sure the police would never have discovered it.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s simply this. The missing artist Thomas Locke can never be found—for the simple reason that there is no such person.”
Nelson stared at the detective.
“Explain, please,” he said briefly.
“I will. The artist, Locke, and your friend, Mr. Andrew Barham, are one and the same person.” ”

“ I cannot tell you how I enjoyed the rest and freedom from my distressing home life—yes, I may as well admit it was distressing. Madeleine grew continually harder to live with, and Mrs. Selden was always a thorn in my flesh. ”

“ That’s about all, anyway. The disguise became second nature to me. I could achieve it in a moment or two. Many a time I have left the house in Fifth Avenue, ostensibly for a trip to Chicago or St. Louis. In my bag I had my wig, glasses, collar and tie, and a few such things. I would take a taxi from the station, whither my own chauffeur had driven me, and in it I would make the change in my appearance. The taxi driver rarely noticed it—if he did a five dollar bill closed his mouth. I would get out a few blocks from the studio and walk to it. ”

“ A most surprisingly unpleasant old lady.”
“And you learned?”
“I learned that for some reason, Andrew Barham chose to lead a double life. He was part of the time a resident of Fifth Avenue and a society man. Also, part of the time, he was Thomas Locke, artist, of Washington Square.”
“Have you taxed him with this?”
“I have not. I am employed by you—so I come to you with my findings. If you say so, my discovery shall go no further.”
“I don’t know what to say—I am too amazed for words. If any lesser detective than yourself told me this thing I should scoff at it. ”

“ Nelson impulsively reached over and grasped his friend’s hand.
Lorimer Lane, too, showed appreciation and understanding, but he was eagerly awaiting the rest of the story. His leaping mind had already jumped to the last chapter.
“But,” Barham resumed, “there never was a truer word than Oscar Wilde wrote in his ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.’
“For he who lives more lives than one. ”

“ You are carried away with it all as a theory, and you are trying to make things prove up. But it’s too preposterous—too incredible——”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Nelson, how about this? In Mr. Barham’s desk drawer, the one at his right hand, as he usually sits, I found concealed under some papers, the small picture of Miss Cutler that disappeared from the studio that night of the reappearance of Locke.”
And then Nick Nelson remembered how Barham had continually fumbled in that drawer on certain occasions when Nelson had been there. Was the man in love with Pearl Jane? Was he really Locke? ”