CHAPTER VIIIP. S.
Walter Ogdenstopped on the threshold of the den and regarded Julian Barclay with open displeasure.
“Come, come, Julian, this won’t do,” he said, slamming the door behind him and taking the seat left vacant by Ethel. “I don’t object to a little harmless flirtation, but you apparently forget that Ethel Ogden is engaged to James Patterson.”
Barclay whitened and his clear dark eyes contracted with sudden uncontrollable anguish; then mastering his emotion, he faced the older man with his usual nonchalant manner.
“I was not aware, Ogden, that—that—Miss Ogden was engaged to be married,” he began and stopped, uncertain of his ability to keep his voice expressionless.
“I quite understand,” put in Ogden, more kindly. “Ethel is greatly to blame——”
“No,” the contradiction rang out clearly, and this time there was no mistaking the look in Barclay’seyes. “Miss Ogden is entirely blameless. It was my joy in her society which made me”—speaking more slowly—“blind to the situation.”
Ogden did not reply at once, and Barclay stared steadily out of the window through which the noon-sunshine crept in ever increasing volume, but to him the day had become gray and cheerless. Ogden’s voice aroused him from his bitter thoughts.
“When are you returning to the East?” he asked.
“I haven’t made any definite plans,” Barclay glanced at the mantel clock. “If you will excuse me, Ogden,” rising, “I have to keep an engagement at the club.”
“Will you be back to luncheon?” queried Ogden, accompanying him into the hall.
“No. Please make my apologies to Cousin Jane,” and Barclay disappeared down the staircase, while Ogden, with the feeling of work well done, went back to his den; his hint to Barclay might perhaps be broader than the situation merited, but it could do no permanent harm. James Patterson, in his opinion, was entitled to a fair field, and the sooner he and Ethel were married the better for all parties.
Ethel, never dreaming that her cousin concerned himself in her future welfare, dressed for luncheon with nervous rapidity. But her haste did not preventher from stopping now and then to inspect the ring on her third finger. It was somewhat loose, and she debated a moment as to whether she should wind cotton thread about the hoop to tighten it, but a sudden imperative message from Mrs. Ogden sent her flying down the hall wearing the ring as Barclay had given it to her.
She hesitated outside the drawing room entrance, then with heightened color advanced into the room, but the man who turned from the window on her entrance was not Barclay, and the happy sparkle died from her eyes as she greeted James Patterson.
“I met Mrs. Ogden down town,” he explained, sitting on the sofa by her. “And she very kindly brought me home to luncheon.”
“What about your Congressional duties?” asked Ethel mischievously.
“They can go hang,” with impulsive bitterness, then he added more calmly, “the House has adjourned over today. I telephoned early this morning, Ethel, to ask you to go motoring, but the maid said you were out—with, I suppose”—the bitterness returning to his voice—“Julian Barclay.”
“Come, come, Julian, this won’t do,” he said.
“Come, come, Julian, this won’t do,” he said.
Mrs. Ogden’s entrance saved Ethel from reply. “Come right in to luncheon,” she said. “Professor Norcross and Walter are already waiting for us,” and Patterson, disappointed in not having a longertête-a-têtewith Ethel, sulkily accompanied them into the dining room. But Mrs. Ogden saw to it that he sat between her and Ethel, and he brightened. Only Professor Norcross, seated across the table, observed the shadow on Ethel’s face as she glanced at the empty seat opposite her.
“Where is Julian?” demanded Mrs. Ogden, voicing Ethel’s unspoken question.
“Lunching at the club! he told me to make his excuses,” responded Ogden. “Have some wine, Norcross?”
“No, thanks.” The professor smiled at Ethel. “How went the lesson this morning? Was Takasaki interesting in his ‘parts of speech’?”
“I do wish, Ethel, you would give up teaching the Japs,” broke in Patterson, before she could answer the professor. “I’ve never understood why you let that little Japanese artist monopolize so much of your time when you went to the embassy last winter.”
“Oh, Mr. Soto!” Ethel smiled at a sudden recollection, then blushed hotly as she met the professor’s amused look; Patterson’s jealousy was patent to all. “I miss Mr. Soto and am so sorry he had to return to Japan. He was great fun. You should cultivate a sense of humor, Jim,” with a mischievous glance at Patterson’s glum countenance.
“I found little amusement in watching Soto making sketches of you,” he protested. “It was a great liberty. I am surprised, Ogden, that you permit Ethel to continue to give lessons to the Japanese.”
“Well, really!” Ethel turned and faced Patterson indignantly. “I cannot see that it is any concern of yours.”
“I did not mean it quite in the way it sounds,” Patterson hastened to explain. He had been in a temper all the morning, and his disappointment at not getting Ethel to accompany him motoring had not added to his amiability. “I do not see why any patriotic American desires to teach a Japanese English, and thereby advance the knowledge and education of our future foes.”
“You are decidedly looking into the future,” chuckled Ogden.
“Not half as much as the Japs themselves,” retorted Patterson, happy again in having found his hobby. “The high cast Japanese as well as the coolie is not too proud to spy. They are intensely patriotic; it is the keynote of their character. Tell me honestly, Ethel,” addressing her directly. “Does not Takasaki invariably turn your conversations into questions about our ships, shipyards, and the personnel of our army and navy?”
“No, not always,” declared Ethel in surprise. “Infact, I often allude to them and he changes the topic. Oh, no, I do not give him information.”
“Not intentionally, no,” agreed Patterson, lowering his naturally loud voice. “But the Japanese is ever seeking, always grasping little details, unconsidered trifles, and from that foundation builds and reasons in a manner our Occidental mind never grasps. The Japanese knows more of us today—our habits, our weaknesses, our shortcomings——”
“But not our strength,” broke in Norcross.
“Andour strength,” asserted Patterson calmly. “And he has gained much of that knowledge by aid of the Japanese employed as servants by ranking officers in the United States Navy and in the Army.”
Ogden threw himself back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders.
“Upon my word, Patterson, you are a worthy disciple of Carter Calhoun,” he announced.
“A most misjudged man,” retorted Patterson hotly. “If this country were to listen to him, we would be in a state of preparedness; instead of which——” and a gesture of disgust finished the sentence.
“I cannot believe we are going to the dogs just yet,” Ogden helped himself to salad. “How about it, Norcross? Your profession has taken you prettywell around the globe; what is your opinion of international politics?”
Addressed directly, Norcross laid down knife and fork. “I have talked with a number of Californians, Mr. Patterson,” he began. “And their opinion seems to be that the educated Californians do not fear a Japanese invasion. Of course, as a representative from that State you are in a better position to judge of the local situation than I.”
“Will you please tell me,” Mrs. Ogden broke her long silence, which was commencing to irk her, “how California dared almost plunge this entire country into war because she wished to exclude the Japanese?”
“It wasn’t a case of dare,” replied Patterson, “but of foresight. California, by passing the anti-alien bill, safeguarded the interests of the whole United States. Secondly the best way to avoid war is to prepare for it.”
“I do not see any necessity for war with Japan,” declared Ogden and his positive tone caused Patterson to flush warmly.
“Nor do we on the Pacific slope see the menace you in the east imagine approaching on your Atlantic coast line,” he retorted. “But both are there. The world could not see the invasion of Belgium—but it took place.”
“But the size of our country, our isolated position, in themselves preclude the possibility of invasion,” protested Ethel.
“You are wrong,” argued Patterson. “In the past we have twice been invaded—in the war of the Revolution and the War of 1812; and history is known to repeat itself. Also a nation desiring to hold its place in the world must not close its eyes to what is going on outside its boundaries. Building the Panama Canal has thrown us into world politics. What we have built we must protect.”
“But I fail to see what Panama has to do with Japan,” remarked Mrs. Ogden.
“Do with it?” echoed Patterson, his startled expression bringing a covert smile to Ethel’s lips. “Why, the canal is the channel for our battleships to reach the Pacific, and to protect our interests in the East we must control that ocean. The Japanese are already in possession of islands lying in our line of communication with the Philippines. They are a nation who believe that ‘the Lord helps those who help themselves.’”
Ethel, finishing her salad, suddenly became aware that Professor Norcross was closely studying the ring on her third finger.
As he raised his eyes, their looks crossed, and Ethel felt her color heighten. But the professor’sglance passed on until it rested on Patterson.
“Dwight Tilghman would have supported your theories, Mr. Patterson,” he said. “He had, apparently, a horror of the Japanese.”
“Tilghman! Yes.” Patterson declined the ice offered him. “Poor fellow! His death was a frightful shock to me. I had planned to meet him in Atlanta and missed the train.”
“Was he the man murdered on your train, Professor?” inquired Mrs. Ogden.
“Yes,” Norcross sipped his black coffee meditatively. “A very mysterious case. Hasn’t Mr. Barclay discussed it with you, Miss Ogden?”
“He has spoken of it,” she amended.
“And what is his opinion?” asked Patterson, with his usual abruptness. “Whom does he think poisoned Tilghman?”
“Why, the Japanese—what was his name?” Ethel looked at Norcross.
“Yoshida Ito,” he responded. “Strange the police cannot trace the Jap’s whereabouts.”
“They will, they will; give them time.” Ogden rose at a sign from his wife. “Can I take you anywhere in my motor, Norcross?” and the professor, after a lingering, wistful glance at Ethel and Patterson, who had gravitated again to her side as theyleft the dining room, accepted his offer. Mrs. Ogden, chatting volubly, escorted Patterson and Ethel back to the drawing room and discreetly disappeared.
“Ethel,” Patterson declined the seat she indicated and stepped to her side. “Will you marry me?” and his deep breathing showed the emotion under which he was laboring.
Ethel turned her head slowly until her eyes met his. “No, Jim,” she said simply.
Patterson stared at her, his color receding; then without a word he dropped on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Ethel moved to go to him, then checked herself. What could she say to him? She would not marry him. Vividly before her rose Julian Barclay’s face and the memory of his impassioned whisper as he gave her his ring. Ah, she must abide by the dictates of her heart; love could not be forced or manufactured.
“Jim,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Patterson rose at the sound of her voice. “It’s all right,” he said unsteadily. “You’ve never encouraged me to hope—I might have known,” he sighed wearily. “But it’s human nature to feed on hope. Tell me, Ethel, is it Julian Barclay?” She did not need to answer, the light that crept into her eyes at mention of Barclay’s name betrayedher. Patterson’s hands clenched spasmodically.
“It’s bitter to lose you,” he acknowledged, and his tone proved the truth of his words. “But to Julian Barclay—a stranger—where in God’s name does he come from?”
“Chicago,” Ethel looked at him in astonishment.
“So he says, but I don’t believe it,” Patterson clutched the back of a chair with hard gripping fingers. “I don’t believe it,” he reiterated. “I’ve asked, and no one has heard of him there. I don’t trust him.”
“Nonsense!” Ethel’s sympathy was rapidly changing to anger. “Mr. Barclay is a cousin of our hostess, Mrs. Ogden.”
“And who was Mrs. Ogden before her marriage?” Patterson laughed dryly, then noting her expression he added: “Good God! Ethel, I am only thinking of you, of your future—and I don’t believe Julian Barclay can make you happy.”
“I prefer not to discuss the matter further,” answered Ethel coldly; then as he winced, she added impulsively: “Can’t we be friends, Jim?”
He clasped her extended hand eagerly. “Friends,” he repeated. “Yes, I’ll be your friend; in spite of yourself, Ethel, you shall be guarded against Julian Barclay. I’ve seen him somewhere before”—he broke off as Ethel tried to withdraw her hand fromhis clasp. “To think I’ve lost you,” he muttered brokenly. “Ethel, my Ethel,” and drawing her to him, he kissed her passionately.
“Pardon!” exclaimed an astonished voice behind them, and Ethel wrenching herself free, darted into the hall not waiting to see who the newcomer was. Professor Norcross picked up some papers from the table, and casting a curious glance at Patterson, who presented his back to him, retreated to the waiting automobile.
Safe in her bedroom Ethel flung herself on the bed and strove to regain her lost composure. She was furiously angry with James Patterson, more angry than she had been in years with anyone. It was horrid of him to have kissed her, she passed her handkerchief across her lips; it was outrageous of him to have tried to prejudice her against Julian Barclay.
Quickly her thoughts turned to Barclay, and she lay in dreamy contemplation of the events of the last ten days as they passed in quick succession before her mind’s eye. Barclay’s personality had dominated her every action, and all unconsciously she had fallen under his sway. At first she had rebelled against her longing to see him, to be near him; but the eager, wistful lighting of his eyes when she appeared found a gradual response. His wooinghad not been of the patient order, and Ethel, swept off her feet, was drifting with the tide—to what—?
Ethel moved restlessly. Pshaw! James Patterson’s vague doubts were not worthy a second thought. Julian Barclay was the soul of honor, of loyalty—she would not believe otherwise. But somehow the bed was no longer comfortable, and rising Ethel moved over to her bureau; she could not afford to be idle.
A neat pile of letters, evidently from the afternoon mail, attracted her attention, and opening them proved a welcome diversion. The last was a letter from her mother, and she read the large, sprawling writing with zest. Mrs. Ogden was a poor correspondent, and Ethel depended as a rule on getting news of her family from her father. The letter was not long; Ethel read with pleasure the doctor’s favorable report of her father’s condition, of the few entertainments her mother had attended, and was about to close the letter when she saw the initials: “P.S.” and the word “Over” squeezed in at the bottom of the sheet. Mrs. Ogden, with the inconsequence which characterized her, was given to postscripts, which frequently proved the most important part of her letters, and Ethel turned the last sheet with eager anticipation.
P.S.—The enclosed clipping has recalled to my mind a strange sight which I entirely forgot to mention to your father. I think I told you of meeting Jim Patterson in the Atlanta station nearly ten days ago when I went to see Aunt Susan on her train. The trainmen were very obliging and I was permitted to escort Aunt Susan to the Pullman car, owing I suppose to her enfeebled health; sometimes, Ethel, illness has its perquisites.Well, to go back. On leaving the Pullman car I got turned about and walked down the train-shed with the vaguest idea as to the direction I should take to get back to the station. On passing a Pullman far down the line, I looked up and saw through the polished window pane a hand holding a small open paper between the thumb and first and second fingers. I perceived nothing but the hand, no head was visible or other part of the body; but I gathered the impression that a powder was being shaken into a cup.There wasn’t a soul in the vicinity, and I walked some distance before it dawned on me that I was headed the wrong way, and turned about. I intended speaking of the hand, but meeting Jim Patterson put the whole thing out of my mind. I never would have remembered the incident but for the enclosed clipping. My recollection of the hand, however, is vivid, and I’ve drawn it on paper for you. Had I better communicate with the coroner?Your devotedMamma.
P.S.—The enclosed clipping has recalled to my mind a strange sight which I entirely forgot to mention to your father. I think I told you of meeting Jim Patterson in the Atlanta station nearly ten days ago when I went to see Aunt Susan on her train. The trainmen were very obliging and I was permitted to escort Aunt Susan to the Pullman car, owing I suppose to her enfeebled health; sometimes, Ethel, illness has its perquisites.
Well, to go back. On leaving the Pullman car I got turned about and walked down the train-shed with the vaguest idea as to the direction I should take to get back to the station. On passing a Pullman far down the line, I looked up and saw through the polished window pane a hand holding a small open paper between the thumb and first and second fingers. I perceived nothing but the hand, no head was visible or other part of the body; but I gathered the impression that a powder was being shaken into a cup.
There wasn’t a soul in the vicinity, and I walked some distance before it dawned on me that I was headed the wrong way, and turned about. I intended speaking of the hand, but meeting Jim Patterson put the whole thing out of my mind. I never would have remembered the incident but for the enclosed clipping. My recollection of the hand, however, is vivid, and I’ve drawn it on paper for you. Had I better communicate with the coroner?
Your devoted
Mamma.
Considerably bewildered, Ethel laid down her mother’s letter and picked up the newspaper clipping. It proved to be a brief account of the inquest on Dwight Tilghman, chiefly given over to the medical testimony. “The deceased came to his death from a dose of oxalic acid,” Dr. Shively was quoted as testifying. “This poison was dissolved in brandy, and must have been administered while Tilghmansat in the smoking car in the station at Atlanta.” The coroner’s next question was also quoted: “Can you tell us, Doctor, how the poison was added to the brandy and when?” Shively’s answer followed: “I cannot. We searched the car, but could find no trace of either cup, flask, or glass from which Tilghman must have drunk the poisoned brandy, and no clew as to the owner of the said cup, flask, or glass was obtainable.” The newspaper article then ended with the announcement of the adjournment of the inquest, the coroner’s statement that the deposition of Julian Barclay, a fellow traveler, would be read at the afternoon session.
“Bless me! Perhaps mother has chanced on a clew,” ejaculated Ethel, unaware that she spoke aloud. “Julian will be interested in her postscript. Her ‘hand’ sounds mysterious and terrible; where is the sketch she spoke of”—and dropping the newspaper clipping Ethel hurriedly examined the letter and its envelope.
Inside the latter she found what she was seeking, and drew out a piece of drawing paper. Mrs. Ogden was no mean artist, and on occasions had illustrated articles for a popular magazine, but her indolent spirit and inability to concentrate acted as an effectual check to her ambition, and the one talent she possessed went neglected.
Ethel inspected the drawing with interest. Mrs. Ogden had cleverly sketched the outside of a Pullman car and through the closed glass window stood out a hand, a large shapely hand, holding a paper about the size of those enclosing a powder, between the thumb and first and second finger. The outside of the hand was nearest the window, and on the little finger, distinct and clear, was the outline of a ring. As Ethel bent closer she caught her breath—slowly, reluctantly she raised her left hand and laid it alongside the sketch. In size, design, and color, the ring on her finger and the ring in the sketch were identical.
Ethel sat staring at the sketch and at her ring unmindful of the minutes, and gradually her chaotic thoughts took form. Dwight Tilghman had been murdered in Atlanta by a poisoned powder administered mysteriously; her mother had seen a hand holding a small paper, which might or might not have contained a poison powder, in the window of a Pullman car in the station at Atlanta; and the hand wore a jade ring with a unique carved gold setting on its little finger, which Julian Barclay had, until that noon, worn on his little finger.
Ethel bent over the sketch—Was it the left hand or the right which her mother had seen? She could not tell from the drawing; but it hardly mattered,Julian Barclay had said he had worn the ring first on one hand and then on the other, therefore the point was immaterial. That Julian Barclay was also a traveler on the train with Dwight Tilghman was only a coincidence, she assured herself; but was it also only a coincidence that Julian Barclay had that morning given her the ring? Good God! Could he have given her the ring because its possession to him meant “betrayal and death?”
The sketch fell unheeded to the floor as Ethel stared in horror at the jade ring with its encircling dragon.