AT THE JAPANESE EMBASSY
MIDNIGHT was 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 at the 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 examining _his_ face,”
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 rarely deceived 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 to speak, 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 beat time. 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 by Mrs. 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 an extremely
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 girls married
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 the coroner, 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 alike I 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 the desk 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.