“If he was highborn, as you believe, Mr. Barclay, he would not then have stooped to murder,” argued McLane. “They kill in fair fight.”
“Perhaps,” Barclay scrutinized McLane for a second in silence, then pulled his chair closer. “I agree with you, doctor, in believing that Tilghman’s insult was not the entire motive for his murder—”
“Then what was?” rapped out McLane.
“I don’t know,” Barclay moved impatiently. “Let me explain—before leaving Tilghman in the smoker at Atlanta, I, at his request, loaned him my flask.” McLane regarded his companion with lively interest as he continued somewhat slowly. “The flask contained brandy, and I never thought of it again until I returned to the smoker after helping Norcross carry Tilghman’s body into a stateroom. I searched the smoker but could not find my flask. Just afterward Dr. Shively came back and stated that Tilghman had been poisoned by a dose of oxalic acid dissolved in brandy.”
“Did you tell him of having loaned your flask to Tilghman?” asked McLane, never taking his eyes from his companion.
“No,” Barclay smiled ruefully. “I realize now I should have done so at once, but I was shaken by Tilghman’s murder, and later—” he halted uncertainly. “Well, later, to be frank, I was afraid, not having spoken of the flask in the first place, I would not be believed.”
“But I can’t see,” McLane frowned. “You were not in the smoker when Tilghman was killed—”
“No, oh, no,” the rapid denial was followed by a short silence which Barclay broke with an effort. “At the request of Dr. Shively I watched Ito and accompanied him into dinner. While waiting for it to be served, the Japanese drew the chrysanthemum design, which is etched on my silver flask, on the table cloth.”
“Indeed!” Barclay could not complain of lack of attention, for McLane never removed his gaze from him, and the short ejaculation escaped him unconsciously.
“Ito denied all knowledge of my flask,” continued Barclay. “He stated that he was a designer, and that was all I could get out of him.”