A loud burst of laughter near them drowned her reply, and as Patterson bent nearer, she faltered, recovered herself, and stammered brokenly:
“I can’t, Jim; it’s just impossible.”
In bitter disappointment Patterson straightened up, and thereby missed the look exchanged between Ethel and Julian Barclay, whom chance and the dance had brought by their side. Ethel’s heart was beating with suffocating rapidity as she passed down the room. What witchery lurked in Julian Barclay’s dark eyes to alter her preordained destiny?
Barclay surrendered Miss Van Alstyne to her next partner with a thankful heart and outward regret, and avoiding Mrs. Ogden, made his way out of the ballroom. He was in no mood for talking; he wished to think—and dream—of Ethel Ogden. Why had she looked at him so strangely when chance brought them together in the dance? Was it deep calling to deep? With difficulty he curbed his desire to rush to her. Madness and matrimony both commenced with the same letter, he reminded himself bitterly, and in honor he must banish all thought of Ethel Ogden and settle his mind to solving the problems confronting him. Not the least of these problems was the miniature. Ethel had denied having had one painted, but it might have been done from a photograph without her knowledge—the real mystery was why her miniature had been placed in his pocket, by whom, and how?
On the arrival of the Washington, New Orleans, and San Francisco Express that morning at the National Capital, Barclay, with Dr. Shively and Professor Norcross had made a deposition of the events relating to Dwight Tilghman’s death. Barclay had been the last to be heard by the coroner and the notary, and when he left the Union Station, Shively was in deep conversation with Dr. Leonard McLane who had just arrived, and Barclay forebore to interrupt them. Norcross was nowhere in sight.
Barclay had given his Washington address to the coroner, but had not mentioned it to either Shively or Norcross, and his astonishment at finding Norcross also a guest at the Ogdens’ was as great as the professor’s surprise at seeing him so soon again. Beyond exchanging a few words with him, Barclay gave his entire attention to extracting information about Ethel from his cousin, Mrs. Ogden. The unexpected discovery of the identity of the unknown girl of the miniature acted as a spur to his keen desire to penetrate the riddle of Dwight Tilghman’s murder and the disappearance of his silver flask; but what bearing his involuntary acquisition of the miniature had upon these two events he could not conceive.
Refusing a glass of champagne, Barclay wandered through the dining room, which was becoming crowded again with the ceasing of the dancing, and as his eyes traveled about the room, he encountered the fixed stare of a Japanese standing by one of the doorways.
“Ito, by all that’s wonderful!” ejaculated Barclay under his breath and plunged forward. But two stout dowagers stepped in his way and delayed him, and by the time he had elbowed his way to the door the Japanese was not in sight.
Barclay paused in perplexity. “It surely was Ito,” he muttered. “And yet the Japs look so alike I can’t swear”—he paused to scan several Japanese who stood talking near him. Ito certainly was not in that group, and turning, Barclay walked down the hall. He found a room opening off it half way along, and on impulse pulled back the portières and entered.
The room, empty except for himself, was obviously a den or library; handsome bookcases lined the walls, comfortable lounging chairs and a few small tables stood about, while on the hearth a wood fire burned cheerily, and the light from the electric lamps was reflected back from handsome silver ornaments lying on the desk which stood in the center of the room.