“Well done, Gilmore,” he exclaimed, examining the miniature. “I am sorry to break so beautiful a painting of you, Miss Ogden——”
“Oh, please do,” begged Ethel. “It is too associated with murder and treachery for me ever to want to look at it again.”
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass and ivory as Calhoun ground his heel into the miniature, and gathering up the gold frame and its broken contents, he withdrew from behind the ivory many sheets of folded rice paper on which were fine writing and cabalistic signs.
“The Secretary of War will sleep easier in his bed than he has for many nights,” he said. “God!” He swung on Norcross, one hand lifted menacingly. “Murder I can understand, but treachery and treason—you!”—in gathering fury—“What shall I call you——”
“The nameless man,” was the bitter retort. “Why should I show loyalty to a country whose people repudiated my mother because she married a ‘yellow’ man.”
“Your father, then—” Calhoun stepped back, astounded.
“Was a Japanese, yes. And I was educated partly in this country and partly in Japan. I inherited my mother’s white skin and facial characteristics, only,” with emphasis. “While in Japan I assume my father’s name; while I am an American naturalist, I use my mother’s maiden name.”
Calhoun looked at him for a long moment in silence. “A hybrid! You and your kind are the future problem of the United States,” he said solemnly. “Take your prisoner, Mitchell.”
With ashen face the man they had known as Richard Norcross stepped between them as they lined up against the wall, and ignoring their presence, he walked steadily down the staircase, Mitchell by his side, and into the waiting police automobile.
As the footsteps of the departing men echoed through the silent house, Barclay moved gropingly toward Ethel; then the false strength, which had fought off physical weakness, deserted him, and without word or sound he went crashing to the floor.