“It’s a pretty how-de-do if one guest has to seek another,” grumbled Ogden. “Go with her, Norcross, and see she doesn’t vamoose the way Ethel appears to have done.”
Norcross laughed as he crossed the hall and pulled back the portières, but both he and Lois stopped short just over the threshold at sight of the tableau confronting them in the sun-flooded room.
Ethel, love and a great compassion lighting her face, was stooping over Julian Barclay, who lay apparently asleep on the sofa. Suddenly Barclay tossed his hand above his head and his fingers touched Ethel’s cool palm resting on his pillow. The contact evidently fitted into his dream, for he smiled contentedly as his grasp tightened on her hand.
“Ethel!” he called, and as she bent further over him, his smile faded into a frown, the lines in his face deepened, and he writhed as if in pain, his lips moving, but at first no words came.
“God help me!” he groaned. “I killed Patterson.”
A scream, terrible in its agony, broke from Ethel and awoke Barclay from his slumbers and Lois and Norcross from their stupor. It was the professor who caught Ethel as she reeled backward, and assisted her to a chair.
Barclay, but half awake, sat staring in growing horror at the handcuffs dangling from his wrists, while Detective Mitchell, who had slipped from behind a screen some seconds before, gazed with satisfaction at his prisoner.
“I already had evidence enough to secure this warrant,” he said, producing the document. “But I’m obliged to you, Mr. Barclay, for calling out that you killed Patterson—and before witnesses, too.”
Barclay’s gaze roved around the little group, lingering longest on Ethel, who sat with her face buried in her hands, and his expression brought stinging tears to Lois’ eyes.
“Did I talk in my sleep?” he questioned, with dry lips.