# More Lives Than One/Chapter 7
### CHAPTER VII
#### A FRIEND INDEED

Andrew Barham sat at his breakfast table.
After several hours of thinking, wondering, planning and sorrowing, he had been blessed with a short respite of fitful slumber, and now, though still in a state of mental chaos, he was outwardly composed.
He was relieved that Mother Selden had not joined him in the breakfast room, though she had sent him some messages. It was her custom to breakfast in bed, but he feared she would change her plan for to-day, and when she did not, he was glad. One of his problems was what to do about her continued presence under his roof.
He could not summarily dismiss Madeleine’s mother, as one would a servant, yet he couldn’t face years of solitude à deux with the unamiable lady. However, that was a future consideration—there were many more pressing.
“Hello, Drew—here I am—I just had to come! May I?”
Nick Nelson came into the room, pushing past the waitress, and grasping Barham’s hand.
Words of sympathy were unnecessary between these two friends, and Barham accepted the unspoken message he read in Nelson’s eyes.
“All in the papers?” Barham asked. “I haven’t seen them.”
“Yes; but I suppose garbled versions. Now, Drew, I’m here to help. Command me in any way you like. My time is all yours—and I needn’t tell you everything else I own is.” ​
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 ​some time before she was killed. I’ve tried and tried to think it was an accident—but it wasn’t. The doctors agree on that and, too, I can see that it couldn’t have been.”
Barham sat back in his chair and pushed away from the table.
His hair gleamed golden in the morning sunlight, his heavy eyebrows of the same color, seemed to contract into a straight line as he gazed intently at Nelson.
“Nick, they say that Locke man killed her. I’m not so sure that he did. But I want to find the murderer—that’s one thing I’m sure of. Will you help me do that?”
“Rather! But I’m no good as a sleuth. I’m willing enough—and I’m shrewd, in a way—but I’ve none of that detective instinct in my make-up. Now, I’ve heard of a man——”
“No, don’t drag in a private detective. They’re no good—and too, the police detective on this case seems to be a clever sort. Give him his chance. But I want to find out some things—about—Madeleine. That’s an admission, isn’t it, for a man to make, concerning his own wife! But I did a lot of thinking last night—and, well, maybe, I didn’t treat the girl right—after all.”
“Hush that, Drew! Since you’ve raised the question, let me say once for all, you’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. Maddy was beautiful, she was accomplished, and all that—but she—she wasn’t right! You did everything, and more, that mortal man could do—but the woman was—she was wrong.”
“Explain yourself, please,” and Andrew Barham’s blue-gray eyes took on that deeper blue that came to them in moments of extreme anger or other strong passion.
“Drop that attitude, Drew,” the other said, quietly. “I’ll tell you if you want me to—or, I’ll not tell you. But ​there are things about Madeleine that you have never known.”
Barham’s attitude changed to one of wonder.
“Tell me, Nick,” he said, briefly.
“Not here—come to some quieter place.”
But before the two men could have further talk, Detective Hutchins was announced.
“Sorry to intrude,” he said, politely, “but there are some questions I have to settle at once, Mr. Barham.”
“Very well, come into the library,” and Andrew Barham introduced Nelson, and the three sat down.
“To be through with this interview as quickly as possible, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said, “I’ll tell you where we stand. We, the police, have practically only two facts to work on—Mrs. Barham’s death, and the disappearance of Mr. Locke. Anything else we know is part and parcel of one of these two propositions. Now, it is self-evident that you cannot tell us anything about the whereabouts of Mr Locke. But I am obliged to ask you some questions regarding your wife’s life. I am sorry——”
“Mr. Hutchins,” Andrew Barham said, quietly, “I will ask you to eliminate the personal equation entirely. I know it is from consideration of my feelings that you hesitate or apologize at introducing these subjects, but I assure you it will make it easier for me if you will say what is necessary, in a business-like way. I am quite ready to tell you what I can, but let us be brief and to the point.”
Hutchins’ respect and admiration for this man rose another point, and he said, simply, “I understand, Mr. Barham. Now, shall I speak before Mr. Nelson?”
“Certainly. I have no secrets regarding these things from him.” ​
“Then can you tell me who invited Mrs. Barham to Mr. Locke’s studio party?”
“That I cannot. I should be glad to learn, myself. I had no idea she knew him, or knew any people who would be likely to attend the affair.”
“Yet she was there.”
“Not only that, Mr. Hutchins, but she went there voluntarily and from her own home. Her own maid dressed her in the Oriental costume, and her own chauffeur drove her there at her directions. All of this is as much a mystery to me as to you. Clear it up if you can.”
Though Barham’s voice was steady and his manner calm, Nelson noted the occasional clenching of his hands or biting of his lip, as if he held himself under control with difficulty.
“You’ve asked Mrs. Selden about it?” asked Nelson.
“That reminds me,” Hutchins put in, “I must ask to see Mrs. Selden. Shall I interview her later, or will you send for her now?”
Barham considered.
“As you like,” he said, “but Mrs. Selden is exceedingly nervous—even hysterical. Can you not excuse her?”
“No; it is imperative. And, it will save time,” he glanced at the library clock,“ if she will come here now.”
“Get her, will you, Nick?” Barham said, and Nelson left the room.
“Be careful with her,” Barham warned Hutchins. “She may be cool and collected, and yet, ready to fly into a passion at some simple remark.”
“I’ll manage her,” said the detective carelessly and confidently; yet when, a moment later, Marcia Selden appeared, he lost a little of his cocksure confidence in himself.
She came into the room, tall, stately, gowned in the deepest black, and her face was like a thundercloud. She ​walked slowly across the room, unheeding the men as they rose, and seated herself in an armchair.
Hutchins said afterward, all he could think of was a Scripture verse that was something like, “Terrible as an army with banners!”
Nelson followed her in, and Claudine remained, uncertainly, on the threshold.
“Wait outside, Claudine,” Mrs. Selden said, “and close the door.”
“Now, sir,” she turned to Hutchins, unheeding Barham’s word of introduction, “who killed my daughter?”
But her speech didn’t frighten the detective as had the majesty of her appearance. Indeed, to him, that question placed her at once, as a mere foolish woman, and as such he answered her.
“We don’t know yet, Mrs. Selden, we are endeavoring to find out.”
“When will you know?”
“That I can’t say, but I am hoping that you can give us some help in our efforts to find the criminal.”
“You know the criminal! You know it was that artist person.”
“Have you any reason to think that, aside from the fact that her death occurred there?”
“Yes, the fact of his disappearance. Why else would he run away?”
“That is only negative evidence. However, it will be sifted. Now, Mrs. Selden, can you not tell me of any friend of your daughter’s who might invite her to that party? Mr. Barham is quite sure that her intimates are not to be found in that section of the city.”
“Indeed they are not! My daughter never went down there of her own accord——”
“But she ordered her driver herself——” ​
“I know all that—but she was forced into it. Some one made her do it!”
“Oh, come now, mother,” Barham said, looking at her curiously, “how could that be? Who could so coerce Madeleine?”
“Call in that maid,” said Hutchins, who was getting a little excited.
“Claudine,” he said to her, quickly, “when you dressed Mrs. Barham for the masquerade, did she seem glad to be going or did she seem to be going unwillingly?”
Claudine hesitated and looked from one to another.
“Tell the truth,” said Barham, quietly, but Nelson saw him turn a shade paler as if he feared a revelation.
“Then,” the maid said, hesitatingly, “I can scarcely express it—yet it was this way; as if Madame wanted to go—yet feared it.”
“Feared it!” exclaimed Barham.
“Perhaps not that—” Claudine was really trying to give just the meaning she had in mind, “it was more as if Madame were about to make an experiment.”
“To go to such a place for the first time?” suggested Nelson.
“Yes, that is it. And she wanted to look her very best—and, still—she hesitated. Once or—yes, twice—she pushed me away, and said—‘I won’t go! Get me another gown.’ Then in an instant she said, ‘I will go! I must go!’ and she went through with it. When all arrayed, she looked so beautiful she was much pleased, and seemed eager then to go.”
“Inexplicable,” said Nelson, “but there was surely some influence at work, whether good or bad.”
“Of course there was!” Mrs. Selden cried hysterically. “And I have an idea that I know who is back of all this.” ​
“You do, Mrs. Selden?” Hutchins was really startled. “Then you must tell at once.”
“I will,” and her voice grew louder. “There he sits! Andrew Barham! He never understood my poor daughter.”
“Hush, hush,” Nelson began, but Barham said, “Let her alone, Nick, it’s bound to come.”
“Yes,” the irate woman continued, “I don’t know how he worked it, but he had her decoyed down there and lured away to her death—my Madeleine, my baby!”
“You must interpret this outbreak as you see fit, Mr. Hutchins,” Barham said, with a weary dignity. “I assure you it is merely the vagary of a brain almost disordered by the shock and grief of the tragedy. Knowing Mrs. Selden as I do, it doesn’t entirely surprise me, but I will state that it is utterly untrue. I have no idea why my wife went to Mr. Locke’s last night. That is my statement.”
Few could look at the distressed but fearless face, few could note the straightforward, even defiant manner and not be convinced the man spoke the truth.
But Hutchins was a wary sort, and he was quick to follow up any new line.
He nodded sidewise to Barham, but addressed himself to Mrs. Selden, thinking, and rightly, that any moment might bring an outburst of hysterics and he could learn no more.
“Why would Mr. Barham do this, Mrs. Selden?” Hutchins asked, making his voice as matter-of-fact as he could.
“Maddy was a gambler,” Mrs. Selden said, looking at him out of eyes that now stared piercingly, and again glared wildly about the room, “a terrible gambler. Poor baby, it was the only happiness she had. Her husband neglected her——” ​
“I protest!” Nelson cried. “That is not true! The reverse is the truth——”
“Be still, Nick,” Barham was very white and quiet, “let her tell what she will.”
Something in his calm voice quelled Mrs. Selden and she suddenly became like a whimpering child. “Well, anyway,” she said, “they didn’t get on. He was good to her—yes, I must admit that—but—oh, well, she did waste a lot of money. Poor little Maddy, what gown did you pick out for her, Drew? That white China crêpe?”
“Yes, mother,” and Barham spoke as gently as if she had not arraigned him so cruelly.
“And we must have flowers—lots of valley lilies—and white lilac—Maddy loved white lilac——”
“Yes, Mother, that will all be attended to.”
“Attended to! How thoughtless you are of my wishes, Andrew. I want to attend to it myself. No one but me shall pick out Maddy’s flowers——”
“I know,” Barham said, patiently, “but don’t you remember, Mother, the florist is coming here to consult you——”
“When? When, Drew?”
“This afternoon, at three o’clock. You asked me to order him to do so, you sent me the message by Claudine this morning.”
“So I did—when I first woke up. I dreamed about it. Well, Drew, dear, you’re a good boy. Maybe you didn’t kill Maddy—I mean, maybe——”
Gravely listening, and closely watching Mrs. Selden, Hutchins slowly drew his pencil through some lines he had written.
“I think her conversation cannot be reported, Mr. Barham,” he said; “she is not responsible.” ​
He had not meant this to be heard by the now silent woman.
But it was, and she turned on him in fury.
“Not responsible, young man! I! Marcia Selden! How dare you say such a thing! I’ll have you arrested—get out of this house this instant! I am entirely responsible! I have more brains in a minute than you’ll have in a thousand years! I know what I’m talking about. Indeed I do!”
“Oh, Mother,” Barham’s patience began to give way, “do stop this tirade. Please be more quiet.”
Again her voice rose to a shriek.
“Brute! Unnatural man! My child is killed, and he says, ‘Be quiet!’ I won’t be quiet! I will say what I think!”
“Then say it without me,” and Barham rose and left the room.
“Follow him, Mr. Nelson,” Hutchins said, quickly, “it may not be a bad plan.”
Nelson went, and the detective tried to ingratiate himself with Marcia Selden.
Claudine sat beside her, trying to soothe her, but with small success.
“Now, dear lady,” he said, “you tell me anything you can to help me, and then you go away and rest before the florist comes to see you. You’ve a lot to attend to, with him, you know. Were you in your daughter’s confidence? Did she ever tell you about her acquaintance with Mr. Locke?”
For a long moment Marcia Selden looked at him.
Hutchins knew that his fate was in the balance. She might respond to his advances and give him her confidence and she might fly into a rage at him.
“No,” she said, at last, “she never told me of ​any such person. She never mentioned such a place as a studio on Washington Square. I don’t believe she had ever been there before. And perhaps I was too hard on Mr. Barham. He was never unkind to his wife. They were probably as fond of each other as most married people.”
Hutchins was amazed. Surely, this was the talk of a rational woman.
“Does Mr. Barham play cards?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual, though it was of importance to him.
“Not much. He plays Bridge, but an indifferent game. My daughter was a brilliant player—a renowned player. But she had bad luck—always. And she lost.”
“Large sums?”
“Oh, yes, enormous.”
“And Mr. Barham objected?”
“He didn’t know it. At least he didn’t know how very large they were.”
“How did she pay them?”
“I gave her money frequently—then, of course, sometimes she won—and sometimes, I think, she borrowed from her friends.”
“And from me,” Claudine said, unable to resist the temptation to speak. “Many times did I lend Madame the money for the gamble.”
“Did she repay you?” asked Hutchins.
“Sometimes, not always.”
“Some is still due you, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hush, Claudine, it will be paid, as you well know. How dare you say a word against that sainted child! My Madeleine! My baby!”
Hutchins had already had enough experience to know that this was the precursor to another tantrum, and he ​fled the room, leaving the now screaming woman to the ministrations of the despairing maid.
“You see how matters stand, Mr. Hutchins,” Barham said, as the detective found him and Nelson in an adjoining room. “Mrs. Selden is not demented, but she is irrational at times, mostly because of this shock—but also owing to her naturally excitable disposition and inflammable temper. You may make such use of her statements as you see fit, but in justice to myself, I must ask that you verify them by some more competent testator before you accept them as true.”
“I have no intention of reporting anything Mrs. Selden said,” the detective told him. “I am convinced for myself that she cannot control her speech when the frenzy comes upon her. Moreover, a few moments ago, after you left the room, she greatly modified her expressions of vituperation. Now, I am due at the inquiry to be held in Mr. Locke’s place at eleven o’clock this morning. You need not come, Mr. Barham, but you should be represented.”
“I will represent him,” Nelson said, promptly. “I am a lawyer, and I will do all that is necessary. Also, I will be responsible for Mr. Barham in any and every way.”
“Thank you, Nick—I’m glad to have you help me out like that. Mr. Hutchins, what is this Mr. Locke like? Do you know him?”
“No; nor can I seem to find any picture of him. But I’m told that he is of what is called the artist type—long hair, big glasses, low collar and flowing tie.”
Nelson smiled at the graphic description. “I didn’t know that sort grew nowadays,” he said, “outside the cartoons.”
“They do in Washington Square—lots of them.”
“Do you gather that he is a—a gentleman?” Barham continued. ​
“I do gather that,” Hutchins said, “and partly because I spent last night—what was left of it—in his room, and made use of his bed and bath. One can judge a man by such things, and I gathered that he was of decent, even refined habits—yet, of course, that does not preclude his being a criminal.”
Hutchins spoke thoughtfully; and added, “Also, he has a jolly good sort of servant.”
“What sort?” said Barham.
“A Chinese boy; devoted to his master, neat and efficient, and about as talkative as a steamed clam.”
“Still, he ought to be made to tell you of Locke,” Nelson said.
“Yes—but after all, it isn’t so important to be told about Locke as to find him.”
“Telling of him may lead to finding him.”
“It may, but I don’t think the Chinese can tell anything of importance. I’m quite sure he doesn’t know where Locke is. But we’ll find him yet. That I do feel sure of.”