“Nothing that I considered a clew, but the police may have better luck.” Shively paused to tear open the package he carried, and fitting the instrument together, laid it with others on the couch. “A letter from Dr. McLane, a bunch of keys, a bill folder containing several hundred dollars, some loose change, and that is all.”
“A meager list for identification purposes,” commented Barclay.
“If I could only lay my hands on the flask, or glass, from which Tilghman drank the brandy,” fumed Shively. “Then I’d have the murderer.” The opening of the door interrupted him. “Ah, Conductor, come in and close the door; now, if you are ready we can commence.”
Several times while the stomach pump was in use Barclay became conscious of Shively’s scrutiny, and he mentally cursed the instinct which betrayed his familiarity with medical instruments. Suddenly Shively held up a test tube, and his expression told the conductor what his lack of medical knowledge prevented him from grasping sooner.
“So Mr. Tilghman was poisoned,” he stated, rather than asked.
“Yes, and by a dose of oxalic acid calculated to kill a dozen men,” said Shively gravely. “Who could have administered it?”
“Who, indeed?” Barclay spoke with more force than he realized, and colored as they turned toward him. “I’m going to make it my business to find out, Dr. Shively. Good night,” and not waiting for a reply he stepped into the corridor and made his way swiftly back to his own Pullman.
Barclay had been fortunate enough to secure an entire section to himself, owing to the scarcity of passengers, for the rush had set in to the south, and few were traveling northward. He found his berth not yet made up, and sinking back in his seat he thought over the events of the day. A painful desire to sneeze sent his fingers searching his pockets for a handkerchief, and in drawing it out a small object fell in his lap. After replacing his handkerchief Barclay picked up the chamois-covered bundle and unwound it. A girl’s face smiled up at him from the hollow of his hand.
Barclay looked and looked again at the miniature, unable to believe his eyes. How had a painting of a total stranger gotten into one of his pockets? He turned over the miniature hoping to find some name or initial engraved on its back, but the handsome gold case was as blank as Barclay’s mind. Gradually his dazed wits grasped the beauty of the girl. The artist had done full justice to the exquisite coloring and contour of the face, the golden curly hair, and the deep blue eyes, eyes so direct and clear they held his gaze, and he was conscious of a tantalizing wish to see her lips break into the smile which hovered in her eyes.
Barclay attempted to open the case, but there was no sign of hinge or spring, and fearing to break the ivory miniature in attempting to force it open, he rewrapped the gold case in the chamois and replaced it in his pocket. Could it be that someone on the train had dropped the miniature and he had absent-mindedly pocketed it? He racked his brain trying to recall each action of the day, but the miniature bore apparently no relation to any of them. How had it been slipped inside his pocket unknown to him? The thing smelt of legerdemain, and instantly his thoughts flew to the Japanese—but that was impossible. The girl was an American and her refinement and high bred air instantly placed her social position; she would not be likely to permit her miniature to be carried about by a Japanese designer, an artist—Good Lord!