# More Lives Than One/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII
#### THE WHOLE TRUTH

But while this was all satisfactory to the friends of Andrew Barham it was not so easily accepted by the police.
Hutchins and Dickson both listened to the whole story as detailed by Lorimer Lane to them.
“Are you sure about this thing?” Dickson asked. “I had sort of a notion that Locke was a masquerader, but I couldn’t make the facts fit it. Why, the two men are directly opposite in character—I mean Barham and the artist.”
“No, they’re not,” Lane contradicted. “That’s what I noticed first. They have much in common. The appointments of Locke’s bathroom, the fine towels, the expensive soaps and all that, first struck me as being out of keeping with a poor artist, and hinted at a cultured gentleman. The furniture of the place is not elaborate, but all the little personal belongings betoken a luxury-loving nature. Oh, well, the man himself told me the whole story—we can’t very well doubt it.”
“No, of course not,” Dickson agreed, “but it’s a pretty big yarn to swallow. And, moreover, that settles the question of the murder. Of course it was Barham who killed his wife. She went down there to spy on him and he killed her and ran away. Too easy. All for the love of the little Cutler girl, of course.”
“I don’t think Barham killed his wife,” Lane demurred. “He isn’t the sort to do that. And, too, he said himself ​he didn’t realize that he cared for the little girl until after his wife was dead.”
“And you fell for that! No, Mr. Lane, his affection for the young lady dates farther back. I can see the whole situation, and I haven’t the least doubt that Mrs. Barham discovered—or, at least suspected her husband’s double life and went to the masquerade ball in order to see for herself. That’s why she told no one where she was going. That’s why she told her chauffeur to take her there that night, meaning to go on to the Gardner party afterward. Then Barham, finding her there—of course he would know her in any costume—had a quarrel with her, and either with intent to kill her, or merely in a fit of blind rage, he flung the bronze at her and she fell. Immediately, Barham went down the front stairs, gave his monk’s robe to his servant, told the doorman he would be back shortly, and disappeared. Could there be a better way out of it all? He went back at once to his home, and, returning to his life as Andrew Barham, was free from all suspicion of his crime. I for one don’t want any clearer case against him.”
“I don’t believe it,” Lane mused; “I can’t believe it. He was so convincing as he told his story——”
“Of course he was. He’s a clever man and a shrewd one. But he can’t convince me. I want some one else to hang this crime on, before I give up my hope of hanging it on him. He’s the logical criminal, he’s the obvious one—in a word, there’s no other way to look.”
“No”; Lane insisted. “You’re wrong and I know you’re wrong—and I’ll prove you’re wrong. Give me a couple of days—give me twenty-four hours before you arrest Andrew Barham, and I’ll give you another suspect—and the right one, or I’ll eat my own words.” ​
The police agreed to this, saying they should, however, keep a close watch on Barham’s movements.
As a matter of fact, Andrew Barham was at that moment making up his mind about a very important matter.
He had divulged his secret to the detective, Lane, who had, Barham was sure, gone straight to the police with it. Also, he had told Nick Nelson, his best friend, the whole truth. There was another still who deserved to hear the truth, and to her Barham was going to tell it.
He was a little uncertain how Pearl Jane would take the story. He had deceived her, he couldn’t deny that. Would she forgive him and be friends—or, would she resent it all too much?”
At any rate, he must find out. Barham was not the sort who fears to put it to the touch to win or lose it all.
And, he concluded to himself, if she scorns me, and refuses ever to see me again—well, that’s one more death to die.
So, from his own house, and on his own telephone, he called up Pearl Jane.
“Tommy!” she exclaimed, delightedly.
“Yes, dear—Tommy. Now, I am coming to see you—and I—well I don’t know just how to say what I have to say. But, Mr. Barham will come to see you first.”
“Mr. Barham!”
“Yes, Mr. Andrew Barham. When he comes—see him—will you, Pearl Jane?”
“Why, of course—but what can he want to see me about?”
“You’ll find out when he comes. Just receive him—and, be alone, will you?”
“Yes, of course I’ll do whatever you say, Tommy.” ​
And in less than half an hour, Pearl Jane was informed of Mr. Barham’s arrival.
“Send him up,” she said—and sat, wondering.
And then Andrew Barham went up to Pearl Jane’s little sitting room.
She had never seen him before—to her knowledge.
But as soon as she did see him, she divined the truth at once.
“You—you are Tommy!” she said, looking at his blond hair, and gazing straight into his eyes, unhindered now by the large disfiguring glasses.
“Yes, dear—sit down and listen to my story.”
And then in his own simple, straightforward way, Andrew Barham told the girl the history of his double life—the reasons for it—and the closing of it by the tragedy that had come into it.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he asked, looking deep into her wondering eyes.
“I? I have nothing to forgive! You committed no crime against me.”
“I committed no crime at all, dear. I did not kill my wife.”
“But you know who did?”
“I have a suspicion, Pearl Jane, a grave suspicion. I think I do know who killed her. But I cannot tell of it. I cannot bring myself to cast suspicion on one who may, after all, be as innocent as I am myself. First, though, I want to make my peace with you. You don’t resent, then, my deception of you—of you all? It was such a comfort to me to live the studio life—to have the studio friends—oh, little girl, you can never know how awful my home life was!”
“Why, dear? How?”
The gentle sympathy brought it all out in a rush of ​words. Barham had never expected to divulge his secret woes, but this girl’s attitude was so confidential, so receptive, he couldn’t help it.
“My wife was utterly uncongenial to me,” he said, “this is no disparagement to her—she was a fine woman—but her tastes were all for society, and especially, Bridge playing society. I hate card playing, and so we had nothing in common. She knew and admitted this, and we drifted farther and farther apart. Too, I wanted to paint—I know I’m not an artist, but I love it so. My wife objected to my painting at home, so I set up a studio down here. I had no intention, at first, of keeping it secret, but it seemed better to do so, if I would be let alone, so I carried out the plan.
“And, as is my habit with anything I undertake, I carried it out thoroughly. I used every precaution that no one should suspect that Thomas Locke was Andrew Barham. And it was not at all difficult. I soon had the whole matter so well adjusted and the double life so perfectly arranged, that no one ever suspected such a thing. Nor do I feel myself under any obligation to apologize for it, or even explain it to any one except you.”
“Why to me?” and Pearl Jane looked at him with a wistful little smile.
“Because, dear—because I love you. It sounds strange for a man to say that, so soon after his wife’s death. But I am truthful, Pearl, and I tell you honestly, I didn’t know that I loved you until after Madeleine was gone from me. I had never analyzed or realized my feelings toward you. I think, had my wife lived, I never should have done so. I felt friendly toward you, but I had never thought of loving you. But that night at the party you touched my hand—and a thrill went all through ​me—and I wondered at it. However, had Madeleine lived, and had I thought I was growing fond of you, I should have given up the studio, and put you out of my life. I owed her that. But now she is dead, and while convention should make me keep silent, for a time at least, I waive convention and I tell you that I love you. Not as Tommy Locke, hut as Andrew Barham, I love you, and after a time, I want to make you my wife. What is your answer, Pearl—little Pearl?”
“There can be but one answer,” she returned, tears in her lovely eyes. “I love you, you, whoever you are, or whatever your name is. I am so overcome at what you have told me—I am so bewildered—I can’t seem to think it all out yet. But one thing I know—I love you and I’m glad—glad you love me.”
And then she was in his arms, sobbing out all her bewilderment and surprise on his breast.
“Darling,” he said, “I do love you with all my heart and soul. And the time will come—some day, when I shall proudly claim you for my wife, and gladly take you into my heart and home openly. But for the present—for your sake as well as my own, we must keep our love a secret.”
“Of course—it is the only thing to do. And—and maybe you will change your mind——”
“Don’t, darling, don’t say such things. You are the love of my life. I never cared for Madeleine as I love you—you dear, sweet little thing! She was a lovely woman and a beautiful one. You are my little companion, my beloved child—my other self. We shall be happy together, both after we are married, and also before. We can be friends at once, and we can be more and more to each other as time goes on. I am yours now and forever, and though convention seems to make ​it wiser for us to stay apart for a time, yet if you say so—we will go away at once—together, forever.”
“No, no, dear, I don’t want that. I know how the world will look at us, and I know it’s best and wisest to keep our secret for a time. I can’t get used to it myself! Tommy—I think I shall always call you Tommy—you did wear a wig, didn’t you? But, as you assured me, you are not bald!”
And they laughed together at the idea.
“Also, I miss your gold teeth,” Pearl Jane went on. “That was a clever dodge.”
“Yes—I felt I must make myself into two men, as widely differentiated as possible. So the gold caps and the big glasses and the wig seemed enough, and they were enough to allay any and all suspicion.
“Though there never was any chance for suspicion. Nobody ever dreamed of the identity of the two men.”
“And did your wife suspect it? Was that why she came to the studio?”
“I think that must be the truth. At first, I couldn’t believe it, but I think now there is no other explanation. Had she made herself known to me while there, or had she taxed me with the whole thing at any time, I was quite ready to own up and confess the whole business. I was ready and willing to tell her the truth; that I couldn’t be happy at home, that I wanted a studio and a studio life, and that I had as much right to it as she had to her Bridge-playing career. The only difference was that I led my chosen life secretly, and she did not. But that was because I wanted to be left to myself and not bothered by the friends and acquaintances of our social life. Had my wife known of my studio, she would have been everlastingly coming down there and bringing her friends. That was the atmosphere I wanted to get ​away from. Well, there’s the story, Pearl, dear. And now that you know it, and forgive me, I don’t care for the opinion or criticism of anybody else.”
“And about the murder?”
“Yes—about that. As I told you I have a suspicion—a strong one, that I know who did it. But I shall not mention any name, unless I have to——”
“To clear yourself.”
“Yes—and for you. I had partly thought I would let myself be suspected, rather than accuse another. But, now that I have you to consider, I can’t let myself be wrongly accused. I must keep my name fair against the time when I can give it to you. Pearl Barham—I think we’ll leave out the Jane. I never liked that part of it.”
“Call me whatever you like—Tommy,” and little Pearl gave Barham a glance of absolute adoration and love.
“Dear heart,” he said, and taking her into his embrace he covered her sweet face with kisses.
But the future of Andrew Barham was still beset with difficulties.
Hutchins came to him, and told him the attitude of the police. The detective admitted that Lorimer Lane did not think Barham guilty of the murder of his wife, but that unless he could produce some other suspect, the police must soon arrest him.
“Then, I shall have to tell of my own suspicion,” Barham said gravely. “I hoped not to do so—I hoped the case could go out of existence as one of those unsolved mysteries. But, if it must be—it must, and, much as I dislike to do so, I will tell of my suspicions and you can investigate them.”
But before Hutchins left. Lane came in and declared that he had himself discovered another way to look, and ​he wished Barham’s sanction of his work in that direction.
“It is a woman,” Lane said, and at once he saw, from the expression on Andrew Barham’s face, he had hit it right—so far.
“I deduced much from that pair of long, white gloves,” Lane went on. “They are of a make superior to those worn by most of the ladies at that party. They are Paris gloves, and they are small and dainty. I feel sure none of the other guests had gloves like that. I mean they betoken the presence there of one of Mrs. Barham’s friends—one of her own circle of society. I have again interviewed Claudine, and I find that Mrs. Sayre, the lady who visited Mrs. Barham that evening was being—well, the word must be used—was being blackmailed by Mrs. Barham at that time. I have traced Mrs. Sayre’s movements that evening, and both her maid and her husband say that she went on an errand to her dressmaker’s early that evening and afterwards returned home, and went later with Mr. Sayre to the party at Mrs. Gardner’s. I have checked up this story, and I find she did not go to her dressmaker’s at all that evening. Her story was that she would go to her dressmaker’s wearing a masquerade costume that she wished to have remodeled. I hold that she wore this costume in order to gain admittance to the masquerade at the studio of Thomas Locke, and that Mrs. Barham had already told her of his masquerade, and that she, Mrs. Barham, expected to be there.
“I don’t believe that Mrs. Sayre went to the studio party with any intention of killing Mrs. Barham, but I believe she went there expecting an expose of Mr. Barham’s double life. I believe Mrs. Barham had suspicions of this, and had told Mrs. Sayre of them. Now, Mr. Barham, is she the one you have had in mind in connection with this matter?” ​
“Yes,” said Barham, “she is.”
“Will you go with me to interview her?”
But this Andrew Barham couldn’t bring himself to do. He begged to be let off from such an unpleasant undertaking, and the two detectives went away without him.
Reaching the Sayre house, they succeeded in obtaining an interview with the lady.
“I don’t know what you can have to talk to me about,” she said, a little nervously as she appeared in her living room and greeted the two men.
“Perhaps nothing of importance, Mrs. Sayre,” Lane said, “and perhaps it is. Will you detail your movements the night of the studio party in Washington Square—when Mrs. Barham was killed.”
Whereupon Mrs. Sayre glibly told of her visit to her dressmaker, and afterward the party at Mrs. Gardner’s.
“All very well,” Lane said, “but your dressmaker says you were not there at all.”
Rosamond Sayre turned white, but she declared the woman had forgotten her visit, or for some reason of her own preferred to tell a falsehood about it.
“No, Mrs. Sayre, she is not telling an untruth, but you are. You did not go to your dressmaker’s that night, you went to the studio party. You wore the costume of ‘Winter’, and you left the house just a few moments after Mr. Locke did. You were seen by a neighbor. And before you went—just before, you had a discussion with Mrs. Barham regarding——”
“I did! She blackmailed me! She had made my life a burden for weeks! She knew a secret which I would rather have died than let it come to the ears of my husband. She knew a secret that would have ruined me if it had become known. And she had already extorted hundreds of dollars from me which I paid her to keep silent about it. ​She was continuing to demand money—she told me that night at the studio—we were alone in the den—that unless I paid her a thousand dollars she would tell it that very night at Mrs. Gardner’s. I didn’t mean to kill her—but I was so angry at her cruelty and hard-heartedness that in a frenzy of despair I picked up that thing and threw it at her. When I saw her fall to the floor, I ran away. I couldn’t stay—I didn’t then think she was dead—but I knew I had hurt her, and I thought if I got away she would not dare tell of my presence there. I knew there were enough people there to take care of her. I knew she suspected Mr. Locke of being her own husband in disguise, and I wanted to get away from the whole scene. I came home in a taxicab, and, saying I had been to my modiste’s, I changed into an ordinary evening gown and went to the Gardners’ with my husband.”
“You wore to the studio a pair of white shoes that had been recently cleaned.”
“My maid cleaned them that very night, with a chalk preparation. Why?”
“It was that which put me on your track—that and the gloves. There was a strong, clear line of chalk, in the den where you stood at that time. Also, the gloves pointed to a society lady, and as Claudine had told me of your visit to Mrs. Barham’s that very evening while she was dressing for the masquerade, I just put the various bits of evidence together and they pointed to you. I fear, Mrs. Sayre, we must arrest you.”
“Not alive,” and Rosamond Sayre raised her fingers to her lips.
“Stop her, Hutchins, she’s poisoning herself!” Lane cried.
But they were too late. A tiny pellet had served to cheat the emissaries of law and justice, and in a moment ​or two, Rosamond Sayre had ended her earthly career.
As Madeleine Barham had died at her hand, so Rosamond Sayre owed her own death to the cruelty and crime of her friend.
“It all proved up,” Lane said, in telling Andrew Barham of the suicide. “She had been, among many others, a victim of Mrs. Barham’s blackmail. She had reached the very end of her patience and her resources. She hoped to be present at a mortifying disclosure at the studio, and thought that possibly she could make a sort of deal, later, with Mrs. Barham, if there was a secret to be kept.
“Also, she said that Mrs. Barham discovered the scarab on the table in the den. That she had taken it, knowing it was her husband’s and planning to use it as corroboration of her suspicion that he was Locke himself. So, Mrs. Barham had the stone in her hand when she fell. Miss Cutler, as she has told, took it from the dead woman, knowing it to be valuable, and a prized possession of Locke’s.”
“It’s all true,” Barham said, “and here is my part of the story. I did not recognize my wife at all, though I saw the lady in the Oriental costume. But I did recognize Rosamond Sayre. I knew her costume, having seen it recently, and under the edge of her mask I saw enough of her face to recognize her beyond all possibility of mistake. So, I instantly assumed that she had learned my secret and was there to confound me with its disclosure. I concluded at once to go away forever. I had no thought of my wife’s being there—I didn’t think to get the scarab, which was about the only thing there that could connect me with Andrew Barham. I merely tossed my monk’s robe to Charley and walked off. I had no ​thought of ever returning and simply carried out the plan I had from the beginning when discovery should come—merely to obliterate Tommy Locke from the face of the earth. I went back on two occasions to try to find that scarab. Partly because of its real value and partly because it meant a revelation of the fact that Locke and Barham were one and the same. There is my story. I did suspect Mrs. Sayre from the very first—but I didn’t want to suggest it. She was—I thought—a friend of my wife, and, too, it seemed too dreadful to turn suspicion toward a woman. I went to see her—and she begged me to try to hush up the whole matter. Now she has paid the extreme penalty herself—is it necessary to put the facts before the public?”
“That’s as the police see fit, Mr. Barham. It may be necessary to tell the story, or they may conclude not to.”
“I want especially to prevent Mrs. Selden’s learning of it,” Barham said. “It would break her heart to know the extent of her daughter’s wrong-doing. I shall do all I can to make her life calm and serene for a year or so. At the end of that time, I shall feel I have done my duty by her, and I shall arrange for her to live apart from me.”
Barham did not say who would live with him, and who would be a more desirable companion than his present mother-in-law.
But in his heart, he said, with a great wave of loving affection, “My blessed little Pearl!”
The End