“I spoke hastily,” admitted Mrs. Ogden. “It is really we who are unlucky; no,” correcting herself, “everything ran smoothly until Julian Barclay appeared, and since his arrival things have gone at sixes and sevens. He seems to attract bad luck——”
“Yes?” Norcross looked at her inquiringly, waiting for her to complete the sentence, but Mrs. Ogden’s active mind had gone off at a tangent and she ruminated in silence, a silence unbroken by her two companions.
“I suppose we are forced to believe that poor James Patterson was murdered,” she stated suddenly. “But I think it was horrid of the jury not to bring in a verdict convicting the Japanese, Ito; and to say Jim was killed by a person, or persons, unknown—why”—drawing herself erect. “We might infer from that that one of us was guilty!”
“We are likely to be pestered by detectives,” grumbled Ogden, rising and moving restlessly about the room. “I’m beginning to think the packers, in putting up those cartridges, slipped one of the thirty-two caliber among the others, and Jim was accidentally shot after all.”
“The element of chance predominates in that theory,” argued Norcross, rising as Ethel Ogden came into the room. “Chance that the revolver cartridge was among the others, chance that Jim Patterson stood exactly where he could be hit by that one cartridge. No, Ogden, I would have believed your theory also, if there had been another thirty-two caliber bullet found among those scattered about the premises. As it is——”
“As it is?” echoed Ethel, bending eagerly forward. “You think——”
“The jury found the only verdict it could—an open one——”
“But everything proves the Japanese must be guilty,” retorted Ethel warmly.
“There is no direct evidence against him,” broke in Ogden. “You know”—he stopped abruptly and glanced about the room, then approached his wife and their guests. “It strikes me as singular that Julian Barclay is always the person to see the Jap, Ito, and no one else ever meets him.”
“I have,” announced Ethel calmly.