CHAPTER VIAT THE JAPANESE EMBASSY
Midnightwas fast approaching, but the reception at the Japanese Embassy showed no signs of diminished attendance or lack of enjoyment among the guests. Diplomatic and official Washington was present to do honor to the Mikado’s birthday.
Mr. and Mrs. Walter Ogden and their guests were among the late arrivals, and Ethel Ogden received a warm welcome from Maru Takasaki, who hastened to greet her, and, with an air of great pride, presented her to his wife. Madame Takasaki’s pretty face broke into a friendly smile and she shook Ethel’s hand with marked cordiality.
“You so nice to Mr. Takasaki,” she lisped, with a delicious accent. “He tell me of long white lady who teaches him.”
Ethel cast a startled look at a wall mirror which reflected back her blond beauty, and the Japanese’s description of a “tall blonde” brought a smile to her lips and her eyes danced.
“And how do you like America, O Takasaki-San?” she asked.
“So much,” Madame Takasaki raised her hands as if measuring her meaning. “American people so nice,” she smiled and nodded at her questioner. “But it so strange they have so large noses, the noses give me terror.” Ethel, following Madame Takasaki’s glance, laughed outright; truly her compatriots’ noses did appear large when compared to the small features of the Japanese. The arrival of Maru Takasaki, who had left them a few minutes before, with another Japanese prevented her reply, and she was introduced to Mr. Saito who, Madame Takasaki explained, had arrived only that morning.
“You speak Japanese, Mees Ogden?” inquired Saito.
Ethel recalled a phrase she had picked up in looking over a Japanese-Italian phrase book, meaning, “Not yet,” and in a spirit of mischief, she responded, “Mada-mada,” then dimly wondered at the alteration in her companion’s manner. But Julian Barclay’s abrupt arrival gave her no time to question Saito.
“Won’t you go into supper with me, Miss Ogden?” demanded Barclay eagerly.
“Thanks, but I cannot,” Ethel’s eyes sparkled atthe disappointment which Barclay made no attempt to hide. “But perhaps——”
“Yes?” eagerly, as she stopped tantalizingly.
“I see there is dancing in the ballroom, and after supper——”
“You’ll dance with me?” eager anticipation in his voice.
“If you are good.” Ethel turned to include Mr. Saito in their conversation, but he had moved over to the ambassador’s side and was talking eagerly to him and Maru Takasaki. They turned simultaneously and looked at Ethel and she was surprised by the concentration of their gaze. Angered by their staring, she turned abruptly to Barclay. “I promised to go out to supper with Professor Norcross. Have you seen him?”
“Not since we reached here,” moodily. “He monopolized you shamefully all this evening. Can’t think what you see in the old fogy.”
“Why, he is most entertaining,” protested Ethel. “He has traveled all over the globe and in the most interesting places. And he isn’t old, not over——”
“Sixty!”
“Nonsense!” indignantly. “I don’t believe he is forty-five. It’s those glasses he wears which give him a venerable air; if you examine his face you will find it quite young——”
“I’ll take your word for it; can’t waste time examininghisface,” and Barclay’s gaze never left Ethel. “Don’t move, Miss Ogden,” he entreated. “Against that background of wonderful old silk hangings you’d made a lovely miniature.”
“Flatterer!” Ethel’s eyes sank under his ardent look. “I’ll never achieve a miniature; they are too expensive.”
“Do you mean to say that your family or friends have never had your miniature painted?” asked Barclay incredulously, and his hand felt the small gold miniature case tucked securely inside a concealed pocket of his dress suit. If the miniature had fascinated him, its living prototype had bewitched him, he admitted with secret rage, but he could no more tear himself away from Ethel’s vicinity than the proverbial moth can ignore the candle. “Never had your miniature painted?” he repeated.
“Never,” Ethel laughed faintly at his persistent vehemence. “Awfully short-sighted of them to overlook such a thing of beauty,” she mocked. Like most really beautiful women, Ethel rarely thought of it. But she was aware of a charm, all her own, for it had smoothed life for her since childhood. Her blue eyes, which met every gaze with frank interest, were made for laughter, but in moments of stress their glance deepened, and she was rarelydeceived by specious flattery or the equally treacherous frankness which often covers deceit. Her pale golden hair was her crowning beauty which, with the unconscious grace of her every movement made her presence felt however or wherever she appeared. “Here comes Professor Norcross,” she announced, glancing down the room.
“Then I’m going,” ejaculated Barclay. “Don’t forget those dances,” and he disappeared behind the portières as the professor pushed his way through the throng and joined Ethel.
“Curious, morose sort of chap, Barclay,” observed Norcross. “What made him leave you so suddenly? I asked,” he hastened to explain, seeing her surprise at the question, “because I have a feeling that Barclay is avoiding me.”
“Why should you think that?” parried Ethel. She had observed Barclay’s distrait manner and lapse into silence whenever the professor appeared, and the situation was commencing to pique her curiosity. Not getting an immediate reply to her question she changed the subject. “Suppose we go out to supper,” she suggested, and Norcross accompanied her across the room. They found the dining room too crowded for comfort, and at Norcross’ suggestion Ethel remained near the entrance, while he went in search of an ice.
Their progress toward the dining room had been attentively watched by the ambassador who, exchanging greetings with his guests, imperceptibly followed Ethel and reached her side just as the professor left her.
“Ah, Miss Ogden,” he said. “Why have you never confided to me that you speak Japanese, when instructing my wife in English?”
“But I don’t speak Japanese,” protested Ethel, somewhat bewildered. Her charming personality had won her a friendly footing in their household and the regard of both the ambassador and his wife, and she had particularly enjoyed having the latter for a pupil the year before.
“But, Miss Ogden, you answered Mr. Saito in Japanese,” answered the ambassador, regarding her steadily.
Ethel laughed. “I picked up the phrase ‘mada-mada’ in one of your textbooks,” she explained.
“But that is very clever,” and the ambassador looked at her with a new respect.
“Frankly,” Ethel’s love of fun got the better of her, “Your Excellency, I am a very clever woman,” and she laughed at his serious reception of her jesting. “But no one has discovered it until now. I thank you for the compliment.”
The ambassador bowed gravely and started tospeak, but the arrival of a Cabinet officer caused him to turn hastily away, and Ethel welcomed Professor Norcross and his cooling ice with unaffected pleasure.
“I think the Japanese are the most inquisitive, suspicious people I’ve ever encountered,” she confided to him. “They pursue the same idea for hours and hours. I’ll never be able to convince Mr. Saito that my knowledge of Japanese is limited to three or four words. Now, if I were an accomplished linguist like Mr. Barclay—gracious, I wonder what the ambassador would say if he knew Mr. Barclay speaks Japanese.”
Norcross laid down his spoon on his empty plate. “You heard him, then, speak Japanese?”
“Yes, just as we were entering the house. Have you known Mr. Barclay for a long time?”
“No, I never met him until two nights ago on the train coming to Washington,” replied Norcross, handing Ethel a glass of lemonade and surrendering his empty plate to a servant.
“It was quite a coincidence that you should both be traveling together toward the same house and never realize it until you met there,” commented Ethel. The crush was thinning out, and in the comparative silence, strains of music floated to them from the ballroom, and her foot unconsciously beattime. Norcross caught the direction her eyes were straying, and spoke more quickly than customary.
“You dance, Miss Ogden?”
“With me,” announced Barclay just back of them, and Norcross colored at the curtness of his tone.
“I have promised this dance to Mr. Barclay,” explained Ethel hurriedly, half resentful of Barclay’s air of proprietorship.
“Then will you give me the next?” asked Norcross.
“Surely,” and smiling a gay farewell, Ethel laid her hand on Barclay’s arm and they walked in the direction of the ballroom. Norcross watched them out of sight, then strolled over to the buffet and secured a cup of coffee.
Ethel was one of the best dancers in Washington, and to her delight found Barclay equally proficient. At the end of the dance, when the orchestra played an encore, she agreed with enthusiasm to Barclay’s request that they continue, and Barclay, his eyes seldom straying from his beautiful companion, forgetful of all vexing problems and ignoring prudence, danced as he had seldom danced before.
Ethel’s absorption in the dance made her oblivious of the presence of a tall, burly man who stood byMrs. Ogden and answered the latter’s remarks in haphazard fashion. Her companion’s inattention was not lost on Mrs. Ogden, and she smiled to herself on catching the direction of his gaze.
“Ethel looks very lovely tonight, Mr. Patterson,” she remarked.
“Yes,very,” and the emphasis on the adjective satisfied her match-making mind; Representative Patterson most certainly wore his heart on his sleeve, and gossip for once appeared right; he was undoubtedly in love with Ethel. “Who is the man she is dancing with?” he questioned a moment later. “His face appears familiar, but I cannot place him.”
“My cousin, Julian Barclay.” Mrs. Ogden made room for Patterson on the settee she was sharing with another dowager. “Just returned from Panama, and I haven’t seen him for years. He has taken a great fancy to Ethel,” with a sidelong glance at Patterson. Mrs. Ogden had decided to hurry Fate. “We have such a jolly house party now that Julian and Professor Norcross have joined us.”
“Norcross, the naturalist?” Mrs. Ogden nodded. “He is a clever man. I am puzzled by your cousin; I feel sure that I have met him somewhere.” Patterson’s heavy eyebrows met in a frown. “And he is the type of man not easily forgotten.”
“I’ll introduce you to him, and then you can compare notes,” volunteered Mrs. Ogden, catching Ethel’s eye, and beckoning to her.
“Cousin Jane seems to want us,” said Ethel, and Barclay looked in the direction indicated. Ethel’s hand was still on his arm, and she felt the muscles stiffen. She looked up startled, to learn nothing from his blank expression.
“Won’t you give me another dance?” he asked.
“Perhaps—later,” Ethel dodged an awkward couple who threatened to careen against her as they danced past, and made her way down the room. “Good evening, Jim,” she exclaimed, stopping by her cousin. Her extended hand was eagerly clasped as Patterson welcomed her enthusiastically.
“Mr. Patterson—my cousin, Mr. Barclay,” chimed in Mrs. Ogden, and releasing Ethel’s hand reluctantly, Patterson turned to greet Barclay.
“Haven’t we met before?” he asked, and his gray eyes scanned Barclay intently.
“It may be,” Barclay’s cheery smile was almost boyish. “Were you in Chicago two years ago?”
“N-no,” thoughtfully. “I think not.”
“You two can reminisce later on,” interrupted Mrs. Ogden hastily. “At present, Julian, I wish to introduce you to Miss Van Alstyne,” and before Barclay could protest he found himself before anextremely plain girl who accepted his request for a dance almost before it was spoken.
Patterson watched Barclay depart with a thoughtful frown, then turned to Ethel.
“Suppose we sit out this dance,” he suggested. “I want to talk to you, to have you all to myself,” and Ethel read in his expression the longing he did not strive to conceal from her.
She had twice refused Jim Patterson, but he had declined to accept dismissal, pleading that his great love for her must eventually bring in return a like affection. His dogged persistence had won her respect and liking, and she had, with a determination almost fierce, nearly convinced herself that her liking was becoming something warmer, stronger; but tonight—Ethel closed her eyes as if in pain.
“I wish to dance,” she announced, and Patterson, angered by her imperious tone, of which, to do her justice, she was totally unconscious, placed his arm about her and swung her into the dancing throng.
But as Ethel kept step to the music her heart was in hot revolt. What influence was at work to upset her resolution? Why could she not marry Jim Patterson? He was generous, chivalrous; surely to accept his offer of marriage was to insure not only her future happiness, but the welfare of her invalid father and delicate mother. Other girlsmarried to secure the ease of mind and comfort which money could bring. She had not wantonly encouraged Jim Patterson; two refusals could not be construed as leading him on to a flirtation. He knew she did not love him; but their tastes coincided; surely her liking for him would bridge the matrimonial chasm as well as love? A word—one little word—
Patterson, who had been dancing in silence, drew Ethel closer to avoid collision with another couple, and the nearness of her presence broke down his anger.
“Give me my answer, Ethel?” he whispered in her ear. “Say I have a chance?”
A loud burst of laughter near them drowned her reply, and as Patterson bent nearer, she faltered, recovered herself, and stammered brokenly:
“I can’t, Jim; it’s just impossible.”
In bitter disappointment Patterson straightened up, and thereby missed the look exchanged between Ethel and Julian Barclay, whom chance and the dance had brought by their side. Ethel’s heart was beating with suffocating rapidity as she passed down the room. What witchery lurked in Julian Barclay’s dark eyes to alter her preordained destiny?
Barclay surrendered Miss Van Alstyne to her next partner with a thankful heart and outward regret,and avoiding Mrs. Ogden, made his way out of the ballroom. He was in no mood for talking; he wished to think—and dream—of Ethel Ogden. Why had she looked at him so strangely when chance brought them together in the dance? Was it deep calling to deep? With difficulty he curbed his desire to rush to her. Madness and matrimony both commenced with the same letter, he reminded himself bitterly, and in honor he must banish all thought of Ethel Ogden and settle his mind to solving the problems confronting him. Not the least of these problems was the miniature. Ethel had denied having had one painted, but it might have been done from a photograph without her knowledge—the real mystery was why her miniature had been placed in his pocket, by whom, and how?
On the arrival of the Washington, New Orleans, and San Francisco Express that morning at the National Capital, Barclay, with Dr. Shively and Professor Norcross had made a deposition of the events relating to Dwight Tilghman’s death. Barclay had been the last to be heard by the coroner and the notary, and when he left the Union Station, Shively was in deep conversation with Dr. Leonard McLane who had just arrived, and Barclay forebore to interrupt them. Norcross was nowhere in sight.
Barclay had given his Washington address to thecoroner, but had not mentioned it to either Shively or Norcross, and his astonishment at finding Norcross also a guest at the Ogdens’ was as great as the professor’s surprise at seeing him so soon again. Beyond exchanging a few words with him, Barclay gave his entire attention to extracting information about Ethel from his cousin, Mrs. Ogden. The unexpected discovery of the identity of the unknown girl of the miniature acted as a spur to his keen desire to penetrate the riddle of Dwight Tilghman’s murder and the disappearance of his silver flask; but what bearing his involuntary acquisition of the miniature had upon these two events he could not conceive.
Refusing a glass of champagne, Barclay wandered through the dining room, which was becoming crowded again with the ceasing of the dancing, and as his eyes traveled about the room, he encountered the fixed stare of a Japanese standing by one of the doorways.
“Ito, by all that’s wonderful!” ejaculated Barclay under his breath and plunged forward. But two stout dowagers stepped in his way and delayed him, and by the time he had elbowed his way to the door the Japanese was not in sight.
Barclay paused in perplexity. “It surely was Ito,” he muttered. “And yet the Japs look so alikeI can’t swear”—he paused to scan several Japanese who stood talking near him. Ito certainly was not in that group, and turning, Barclay walked down the hall. He found a room opening off it half way along, and on impulse pulled back the portières and entered.
The room, empty except for himself, was obviously a den or library; handsome bookcases lined the walls, comfortable lounging chairs and a few small tables stood about, while on the hearth a wood fire burned cheerily, and the light from the electric lamps was reflected back from handsome silver ornaments lying on the desk which stood in the center of the room.
Barclay, realizing the room was not open for guests, started to retreat, when he caught sight of a silver flask lying among the desk ornaments, and moved by curiosity he picked it up and examined the intricate scroll work by aid of the droplight. The design was identical with the chrysanthemum pattern on his flask. In every way, style and size, the two flasks were mates, if not the same.
Barclay started as the bare possibility occurred to him, and broke into a profuse perspiration. Pshaw! he was mad! He had last seen his flask in the possession of Dwight Tilghman on the express train—it was beyond probability to find it on thedesk of the Japanese Ambassador! Beyond probability, yes; but not beyond possibility—had he not seen Ito in the dining room, and evidence went to prove that Ito had poisoned Tilghman. If he had placed that poison in Barclay’s flask, what more likely than his leaving such incriminating evidence where it might never be found and traced?
Barclay held the flask up to the light and tilted it. A little liquid remained in it, and he came to a quick decision.
On entering the room Barclay had failed to note that at its far corner it opened into a conservatory, and as he pocketed the flask, he did not see the red glow of a cigar among the leaves of the tropical plants.