“A Mr. Barclay,”—McLane picked up Barclay’s visiting card. “Julian Barclay.”
Patterson’s expression changed. “Who is he?” he demanded. “Who is this Barclay?”
McLane’s eyebrows rose in interrogation, but the glance he shot at the excited man before him was piercing in its intensity. He tossed the visiting card to Patterson.
“Julian Barclay,” he repeated, and shrugged his shoulders.
Patterson crumpled the visiting card in his strong fingers and flung it contemptuously into the waste paper basket.
“I’m disappointed, McLane; thought you might give me some information about this Barclay, who he is, and all that—I have had some connection”—he broke off to stare moodily at the floor. “Barclay is in love with Ethel Ogden,” he remarked bitterly.
McLane sat erect and stared at him. “And Miss Ogden?” he asked; and his voice was very grave.
“Has the poor taste to prefer Barclay to me,” Patterson’s attempt at a smile was ghastly. “Barclay’s face is familiar, but I cannot place him.”
“Likenesses are very puzzling sometimes,” remarked McLane. “What is your particular ailment this afternoon, Patterson? You were as sound as a dollar the last time I examined you.”
“Still sound, except for the shock of being refused by Ethel,” Patterson fingered the desk ornaments nearest him nervously. “It isn’t a thing I’d mention to anyone but you, McLane.”