Quickly her thoughts turned to Barclay, and she lay in dreamy contemplation of the events of the last ten days as they passed in quick succession before her mind’s eye. Barclay’s personality had dominated her every action, and all unconsciously she had fallen under his sway. At first she had rebelled against her longing to see him, to be near him; but the eager, wistful lighting of his eyes when she appeared found a gradual response. His wooing had not been of the patient order, and Ethel, swept off her feet, was drifting with the tide—to what—?
Ethel moved restlessly. Pshaw! James Patterson’s vague doubts were not worthy a second thought. Julian Barclay was the soul of honor, of loyalty—she would not believe otherwise. But somehow the bed was no longer comfortable, and rising Ethel moved over to her bureau; she could not afford to be idle.
A neat pile of letters, evidently from the afternoon mail, attracted her attention, and opening them proved a welcome diversion. The last was a letter from her mother, and she read the large, sprawling writing with zest. Mrs. Ogden was a poor correspondent, and Ethel depended as a rule on getting news of her family from her father. The letter was not long; Ethel read with pleasure the doctor’s favorable report of her father’s condition, of the few entertainments her mother had attended, and was about to close the letter when she saw the initials: “P.S.” and the word “Over” squeezed in at the bottom of the sheet. Mrs. Ogden, with the inconsequence which characterized her, was given to postscripts, which frequently proved the most important part of her letters, and Ethel turned the last sheet with eager anticipation.
P.S.—The enclosed clipping has recalled to my mind a strange sight which I entirely forgot to mention to your father. I think I told you of meeting Jim Patterson in the Atlanta station nearly ten days ago when I went to see Aunt Susan on her train. The trainmen were very obliging and I was permitted to escort Aunt Susan to the Pullman car, owing I suppose to her enfeebled health; sometimes, Ethel, illness has its perquisites.
Well, to go back. On leaving the Pullman car I got turned about and walked down the train-shed with the vaguest idea as to the direction I should take to get back to the station. On passing a Pullman far down the line, I looked up and saw through the polished window pane a hand holding a small open paper between the thumb and first and second fingers. I perceived nothing but the hand, no head was visible or other part of the body; but I gathered the impression that a powder was being shaken into a cup.
There wasn’t a soul in the vicinity, and I walked some distance before it dawned on me that I was headed the wrong way, and turned about. I intended speaking of the hand, but meeting Jim Patterson put the whole thing out of my mind. I never would have remembered the incident but for the enclosed clipping. My recollection of the hand, however, is vivid, and I’ve drawn it on paper for you. Had I better communicate with the coroner?
Your devoted
Mamma.
Considerably bewildered, Ethel laid down her mother’s letter and picked up the newspaper clipping. It proved to be a brief account of the inquest on Dwight Tilghman, chiefly given over to the medical testimony. “The deceased came to his death from a dose of oxalic acid,” Dr. Shively was quoted as testifying. “This poison was dissolved in brandy, and must have been administered while Tilghman sat in the smoking car in the station at Atlanta.” The coroner’s next question was also quoted: “Can you tell us, Doctor, how the poison was added to the brandy and when?” Shively’s answer followed: “I cannot. We searched the car, but could find no trace of either cup, flask, or glass from which Tilghman must have drunk the poisoned brandy, and no clew as to the owner of the said cup, flask, or glass was obtainable.” The newspaper article then ended with the announcement of the adjournment of the inquest, the coroner’s statement that the deposition of Julian Barclay, a fellow traveler, would be read at the afternoon session.
“Bless me! Perhaps mother has chanced on a clew,” ejaculated Ethel, unaware that she spoke aloud. “Julian will be interested in her postscript. Her ‘hand’ sounds mysterious and terrible; where is the sketch she spoke of”—and dropping the newspaper clipping Ethel hurriedly examined the letter and its envelope.