“Does it not seem possible that James Patterson, blinded by the smoke from the burning room, unexpectedly encountered this Yoshida Ito, who might have been in the Ogden house only to steal, and instead killed Patterson, an outspoken enemy of his country, and escaped unseen in the smoke and confusion?” asked McLane thoughtfully.
“That did occur to me,” acknowledged Calhoun. “And your theory is borne out by the loss of the miniature, which I see in the newspaper article is reported mysteriously missing. Patterson may have taken it from the burning room and dropped it on meeting the Jap, who may have stolen it after killing him.” Calhoun pursed up his lips and looked meditatively at McLane. “It strikes me that Miss Ogden must have attached unusual importance to that miniature to have asked a man to risk his life to get it for her out of a burning room. Was it a particularly fine work of art?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never seen it.”
“Too bad,” muttered Calhoun. “Is Miss Ethel Ogden closely related to Walter Ogden?”
“Third or fourth cousin, I believe,” McLane moved restlessly; he was not pleasantly impressed with Carter Calhoun. “Miss Ogden is a charming, lovable girl, the soul of honor,” he added warmly.
“Ah, indeed; I hope to meet her soon,” Calhoun settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “Professor Norcross, you’ve met him of course, has been kind enough to keep me informed of several matters relating to Tilghman’s death, and wrote me that she was very beautiful. Who’s in your front office?” he added, with some abruptness, and McLane stared at his keen hearing; he himself had not detected footsteps in the next room.
“I imagine it is Dr. Horace Shively,” he said, rising hurriedly. “He was to call here about this time”—stopping with his hand on the doorknob. “He was on the train when Tilghman was murdered and first detected the use of oxalic acid.”
“Oh! Do you know him well?”
“No, only slightly. He had a good practice in Newport, but ill health forced him to retire, and having a comfortable fortune he spends much of his time traveling.” Turning back to the door McLane opened it, and found his expected visitor standing with his back to him looking out of the window. “How are you, Doctor?” he exclaimed cordially, and Shively wheeled about. “Come into my private office,” added McLane, after they had shaken hands; “Colonel Calhoun is anxious to meet you, we were discussing Tilghman’s murder while waiting for you.” And he stepped aside to let Shively pass him.
Calhoun rose on their entrance and bowed gravely to Shively as McLane introduced them. “Take my seat,” he said, and dropped into another chair and sat with his back to the light. “I have traveled east, Dr. Shively, to secure data about the murder of my friend, Dwight Tilghman.”