THE QUARREL
PROFESSOR NORCROSS laid aside the late edition of the _Times_, and
took, with a word of thanks, the three-cornered note handed him by Mrs.
Ogden’s maid. But on closing the door of his bedroom he lost no time in
unfolding the note paper, and read the words with eagerness.
DEAR PROFESSOR:
I _must_ have a word with you before the other guests arrive. I will
be in the library at seven-thirty. _Please_ be there.
In haste,
ETHEL OGDEN.
Norcross laid the note on his bureau and consulted his watch; then
rushing to his closet dragged out his evening clothes, and commenced
dressing with feverish haste.
But with all his speed the professor, twenty minutes later, paused on
the landing of the staircase and an exclamation of pleased surprise
escaped him. The florist had transformed the stately entrance hall and
rooms beyond into fairyland. Tall, graceful palms, plants, and clusters
of cut flowers filled every nook and cranny, while the system of
indirect lighting suggested earlier in the day by Julian Barclay, added
to the beauty of the scene. However beautiful the scene, it had only
power to hold Professor Norcross for a moment, and he lost no further
time in reaching the library. Ethel was there before him.
“It is good of you to come to me,” she exclaimed, impulsively extending
her hand, and Norcross clasped it in both of his.
“Are you not feverish?” he asked, alarmed at the hotness of her hand
and her flushed cheeks.
“Perhaps,” indifferently. “Professor, tell me”--she stopped and
continued more slowly. “What is your opinion of Julian Barclay?”
Norcross hesitated, and she added proudly, “I desire the truth.”
“Very well,” Norcross looked at her compassionately. “On first meeting
Julian Barclay I thought him a pleasant, agreeable companion,”--he
was picking his words with care. “A man who might have achieved
considerable success in whatever he undertook, had not a comfortable
income deprived him of the necessity and spur to apply himself to work.”
“And you think now--?” suggested Ethel, as he paused.
“Too much idleness is the curse of many American men,” he said. “If
they cannot find a proper outlet for their energies, and there comes a
time when idleness palls, they are apt to turn to unwise occupations
and corrupt associates. Such, I fear, is the case with Julian Barclay.”
Ethel covered her eyes as if to shut out the glare of the droplight
electric lamp by which they were sitting, and Norcross reaching over,
switched it off. In the light thrown out by the open fire on the hearth
he could see Ethel fairly distinctly, and he frowned as he detected
the effect of her sleepless night. The light and shadow of the room,
the high-backed brocaded chair in which she sat, her perfectly fitted,
simple evening gown, made a quaint picture, and Norcross’ bottled-up
indignation found vent in a muttered curse. It seemed criminal that
a man of Julian Barclay’s caliber should have it within his power to
cause her suffering.
Ethel, suddenly conscious of the silence, dropped her hand from before
her eyes, and glanced at Norcross. She found his pleasant face set in
grim lines.
“Go on,” she begged. “You were saying----”
“Idleness, money, no home ties, and the Far East are a bad
combination,” he responded gravely. “Barclay seldom speaks of the years
he has spent in the Orient; in fact, he leads one to infer that he
knows little about it. That first prejudiced me against him, for I had
heard--” he did not finish his sentence.
“You had heard”--prompted Ethel.
“I had a letter from Dr. Shively recently, calling my attention to
the fact that Barclay, in his deposition to the coroner here and read
at the inquest on Tilghman in Atlanta, omitted all mention of his
whereabouts at the time Tilghman was poisoned. As every passenger
even remotely connected with the affair, proved his alibi, Barclay’s
omission was surprising.”
“But he said last night that he was sight-seeing,” interposed Ethel, in
a vain endeavor to combat what reason told her was the truth.
“Neither Shively or I caught a glimpse of him about the station,” said
Norcross gravely. “And Shively writes that he has questioned many of
the passengers, porters, and railroad officials at Atlanta and all
state they did not see a man answering his description. Until Shively’s
letter arrived, I have thought the Jap, Ito, guilty, but now after last
night”--he paused and contemplated her thoughtfully. “I am forced to
believe that Julian Barclay must be involved in the crime also.”
Ethel shaded her face with her hand. “Your reasons?” she demanded.
“We both saw him talking to Ito last night.”
“Mr. Barclay admitted at luncheon that he had found Ito here,” Ethel
was dogged in her determination to exonerate Barclay.
“True; but when I asked him if he had not come face to face with
the Jap, he denied it, and you and I saw him talking with the Jap,
and his words: ‘Ito, I have no more money to spare,’ bear but one
interpretation.” Norcross laid his hand on hers. “Miss Ogden, I am
hurting you cruelly--it grieves me to inflict pain.”
Ethel smiled bravely, but as she met the sympathy in his kind eyes, her
own brimmed over. She dashed the tears impatiently away. “It is better
that I face the situation,” she said. “Why did Julian bring up the
subject of the burglar at luncheon, why mention the Jap at all?”
“Because,” Norcross lowered his voice. “I believe he knew we were
watching him.”
“Oh!” Ethel’s thoughts flew to her miniature; Barclay had not stopped
to get it on returning from the interview with the Jap, and he had not
inquired for it since. He must have seen her that night and supposed
she had taken it.
“Barclay was clever enough to take the bull by the horns,” added
Norcross. “He forestalled all questions by announcing that _he_ was
chasing a burglar, a meritorious act. To others it will be a perfectly
valid excuse for his appearance in the hall at that hour; but,
unfortunately for him, we looked out of the window.” Norcross moved his
chair closer.
“Had you seen Barclay before luncheon?”
“No.”
“Nor had I,” thoughtfully. “Then he chose the first opportunity to tell
us in each other’s presence, of his pursuit of the so-called burglar.”
Ethel contemplated Norcross in despair; he was weaving a web about
Barclay which even her loyalty could not ignore.
“Had Mr. Barclay known Dwight Tilghman for a long time?” she asked.
“No. I believe they met for the first time the night before Tilghman’s
death.”
Ethel brightened. “Then, if they were virtually strangers, there could
be no motive for the crime.”
Norcross did not answer at once, and when he finally spoke it was
with reluctance. “We played poker that night on the train, and Dwight
Tilghman won a large sum of money from Barclay, and yet when Tilghman’s
personal belongings and baggage were examined after his death, the
money was missing.”
Vaguely Ethel grasped his meaning. “No, I don’t believe it,” she cried.
“It was no sordid crime, and if that is the only motive imputed to
Julian for the murder of Tilghman, I’ll not believe him guilty.”
Norcross moved uncomfortably. “I hope that time will prove you right,”
he said. “It may be that Barclay knew this Ito in the Orient, and the
Jap is blackmailing him for some past indiscretion, which has nothing
to do with Tilghman’s death.”
“I believe you are right!” Ethel drew a long breath, hope had returned
to her. She sprang to her feet. “How can I thank you?”
“By getting back your old, gay smile,” he exclaimed coloring, and
speaking lightly to conceal his emotion. “There, that’s better,” as
Ethel flashed him a grateful look and a smile. “I hope you will always
come to me to solve your problems.”
“I will, I will,” she promised fervently. “I want to speak to you about
a--” the entrance of Walter Ogden interrupted her.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Norcross,” he said, not seeing
Ethel, who had retired to one of the windows as he came in the doorway.
“Jane wants you in the dining room; something is wrong with the
decorations, and she thinks you can advise her.”
“Surely, I will come at once. Will you excuse me, Miss Ogden?” bowing
toward Ethel, and Ogden wheeled about.
“I didn’t know you were downstairs, Ethel,” he exclaimed. “Coming with
us?” holding back the portières as he spoke.
“Not just this minute,” Ethel stepped inside one of the deep window
recesses. “I want to cool off.”
“Cool off?” Ogden’s voice expressed his astonishment. “All right,” and
he followed Professor Norcross with somewhat mixed feelings. Had he
interrupted a flirtation? A flirtation with the professor--Ogden had
some difficulty suppressing a chuckle.
Ethel had spoken on the impulse of the moment. She wanted to be by
herself; Norcross had given her food for thought. Blackmail, ah, that
would explain Barclay’s surprising interview with the Jap. What more
likely than that Ito, a fugitive from justice, had applied to Barclay
for funds with which to escape from the country? He probably had bled
Barclay before. As for the indiscretion--if Barclay had remained any
time in the East, he might have become involved in some political
entanglement.
Pulling the catch of the leaded glass window, which opened inward,
Ethel peeped outside. The cold air was refreshing, and she filled her
lungs with it.
A wide balcony ran by the window, and leaning farther out, Ethel was
startled at seeing a man standing at the end overlooking the street.
He moved slightly and by the light shining through the drawing room
windows Ethel recognized Barclay. Quickly she drew back into the
library and closed the window.
Barclay might have heard the faint noise the window catch made falling
into place, but his attention was centered on James Patterson who stood
at the corner just under the arc light talking to a man. They were too
far away for Barclay to distinguish a word of their conversation, but
that it was animated Patterson’s gestures indicated. At last Patterson
moved toward the Ogden residence, and his companion lifted his hat in
farewell, and the arc light fell full upon Yoshida Ito.
Dumbfounded, Barclay continued to stare at the little Japanese, and
before he had collected his wits, Ito had disappeared. He was not so
much surprised at the Jap’s unexpected appearance, but to find him
in Patterson’s company took his breath away. He had gone out on the
balcony to smoke a cigarette uninterrupted, but when he reëntered the
drawing room through the long French window, his cigarette was still
unlighted.
Barclay found the drawing room deserted, and he was about to go into
the library when the entrance of James Patterson stopped him. The two
men stared at each other for a prolonged moment.
“This is better luck than I expected,” said Patterson. “I have wanted
to see you alone for some time.”
“Your ambition might have been attained before, if you had let me know
you wished to see me,” replied Barclay sarcastically, and Patterson
stiffened.
“I am not so sure of that,” he rejoined swiftly. “Your manner has
led me to believe that you desire to avoid me--as in the station at
Atlanta.”
“You flatter yourself,” Barclay laughed easily, then his voice
deepened. “Now, sir, that you do see me, what do you wish?”
“That you leave town at once.”
“Anything more?”
“That you have nothing further to do with Ethel Ogden.”
Barclay’s hitherto suppressed anger rose to boiling heat. “On what
grounds do you make that request?” he demanded.
“As her affianced husband,” with calm effrontery.
Barclay flinched. “But that Mr. Ogden gave me to understand that you
and Miss Ogden are engaged, I would decline to believe your assertion.”
“By--” Patterson in a towering rage stepped toward him, but Barclay
stood his ground, and he stopped. “I will give you twelve hours to
leave Washington, or I will expose you,” he announced.
“Thanks,” dryly. “I had planned to leave tomorrow, but now--I’ll stay
here.”
[Illustration: “I will give you twelve hours to leave Washington or I
will expose you,” he announced.]
Patterson’s smile was far from pleasant. “Bravado will not help you,”
he snarled, raising his voice. “I shall go the limit to protect Miss
Ogden and Washington society from the attention of----”
“Miss Ogden can take care of herself,” announced a clear voice behind
them and the two men swung about and confronted Ethel.
“I must ask you to leave, Ethel,” broke in Patterson hastily, before
Barclay could speak.
“I will not,” and she stepped nearer. “I have only just come in. What
were you quarreling about, Mr. Barclay.”
“A matter of no moment,” he answered. “A--a political discussion.”
Ethel looked at him closely. “Thank you,” she murmured, and her warm,
bright smile almost broke down his composure.
Ethel’s manner to Barclay had not been lost on Patterson, and it fanned
his jealousy to a white heat.
“Let’s have done with lies,” he began roughly. “This man is not a fit
associate for you, Ethel.”
“Wait!” Ethel laid a restraining hand on Barclay’s arm as he stepped
toward Patterson, and he thrilled at her touch. Ethel faced Patterson.
“I will have you understand, James Patterson, that I choose my own
friends, and I consider Mr. Barclay worthy of my friendship.”
Impulsively Barclay raised the little hand on his arm and kissed it
passionately.
“God bless you!” he murmured, and she crimsoned as the whisper reached
her.
“Ethel, Ethel,” Patterson threw out his hand beseechingly. “You are
totally ignorant of Barclay’s true character. No, you’ve got to listen
to me,” as she drew back. “Or if not to me”--catching sight of Dr.
Leonard McLane, who had just stepped inside the drawing room--“then you
must hear Dr. McLane. McLane, who is this man?” pointing to Barclay,
who had grown deadly white. Only Ethel heard Barclay’s sharply drawn
breath as he stood tranquilly waiting.
McLane advanced, bowed to Ethel, and then paused in front of the group.
“Barclay, is it not?” he asked courteously, and held out his hand.