“Yes,” Norcross sipped his black coffee meditatively. “A very mysterious case. Hasn’t Mr. Barclay discussed it with you, Miss Ogden?”
“He has spoken of it,” she amended.
“And what is his opinion?” asked Patterson, with his usual abruptness. “Whom does he think poisoned Tilghman?”
“Why, the Japanese—what was his name?” Ethel looked at Norcross.
“Yoshida Ito,” he responded. “Strange the police cannot trace the Jap’s whereabouts.”
“They will, they will; give them time.” Ogden rose at a sign from his wife. “Can I take you anywhere in my motor, Norcross?” and the professor, after a lingering, wistful glance at Ethel and Patterson, who had gravitated again to her side as they left the dining room, accepted his offer. Mrs. Ogden, chatting volubly, escorted Patterson and Ethel back to the drawing room and discreetly disappeared.
“Ethel,” Patterson declined the seat she indicated and stepped to her side. “Will you marry me?” and his deep breathing showed the emotion under which he was laboring.
Ethel turned her head slowly until her eyes met his. “No, Jim,” she said simply.
Patterson stared at her, his color receding; then without a word he dropped on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Ethel moved to go to him, then checked herself. What could she say to him? She would not marry him. Vividly before her rose Julian Barclay’s face and the memory of his impassioned whisper as he gave her his ring. Ah, she must abide by the dictates of her heart; love could not be forced or manufactured.
“Jim,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”