Barclay picked up a newspaper, but the printed lines failed to interest him, and when Dr. Leonard McLane entered the room to summon the next patient into his consulting office, he was looking out of the window at the passing vehicles and electric cars. The surgeon’s roving glance halted as it fell on Barclay’s fine profile, then passed on, but each time that McLane reëntered the room he contrived without attracting Barclay’s attention, to get a better and nearer view of him.
“Well, sir,” McLane’s clear resonant voice broke in on Barclay’s sad thoughts. “What can I do for you?” And looking up, Barclay found that he was the last patient and the two men were alone.
“I would like a word with you in private,” he said.
McLane bowed. “This way, then,” and stepping inside the consulting office Barclay selected a chair farthest from the window, while the surgeon closed the communicating door, and sat down before his desk. He waited for Barclay to speak, but it was some minutes before the latter broke the silence.
“I have not come to consult you as a patient, Doctor,” he began. “But on a private matter.”
“Yes?” McLane’s voice again aroused Barclay, and he cleared his throat nervously.
“I realize that you are very busy,” he stammered, glancing about the well-arranged office. “I promise not to take up your time needlessly. Here is my card”—laying his visiting card on the desk, and McLane switched on his droplight, for the winter afternoon was waning into twilight, and read the name engraved on the card.
“Well, Mr. Barclay, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Give me all the details of the inquest on Dwight Tilghman,” answered Barclay promptly, looking directly at McLane. “I understand that you went to Atlanta with the body and stayed on for the inquest.”
“True, I did,” replied McLane, and imperceptibly his hand moved the shade of the droplight until Barclay’s face was no longer in shadow. “Are you the Julian Barclay whose deposition was read at the inquest?”