“Of which I am entirely innocent,” declared Barclay, facing the detective with something of his habitual poise and self-command.
“That remains to be proved,” exclaimed Mitchell skeptically. “I am still awaiting an explanation of your cryptic remark that you killed Patterson and not James Patterson.”
Barclay cleared his throat, and not looking at Ethel, addressed them inclusively.
“Fifteen years ago I accidently shot and killed Dr. Paul Patterson, with whom I roomed in Baltimore while a student at Johns Hopkins University,” he said. “I was acquitted by the grand jury.”
“After three trials.” The comment slipped from Walter Ogden, and too late, he regretted the words.
“After three trials,” repeated Barclay slowly. “Quite true, but I was acquitted, and cannot be tried again for that offense.”
“I don’t recall any such case,” muttered Mitchell. “How did you come to kill this Paul Patterson?”
Barclay did not reply at once, and his labored breathing indicated the strain he was under. “From a child I was imaginative, highly strung, nervous,” he began. “As I grew older I gained self-control, and when I entered Johns Hopkins University I was as normal as any student. I was very ambitious, and during my last year overstudy and the tension under which I was living brought on somnambulism.”
“Oh!” Ethel, who was hanging on his words, was unaware that she had spoken, but from that moment she was Barclay’s only audience, and his voice deepened with emotion as he rehearsed old memories and lived through old scenes.
“I knew that as a boy I often talked in my sleep when unduly excited by the day’s events,” he continued. “But I was never aware that I ever walked in my sleep, and Dr. Patterson, on discovering that fact, never told me. One night he inadvertently awoke me, and the revolver I had picked up from his desk in the library, went off without my volition”—Barclay shivered, lifted his manacled hands as if to shut out a vision, and dropped them impotently. “When fully awake I found Paul Patterson lying dead across the desk, and the housekeeper crying: ‘Murder,’ as she ran through the house. My arrest followed.”