“I will not speak of it,” promised McLane. “And—I’m sorry, Patterson.”
“Thanks, old man,” Patterson cleared his voice of a troublesome lump. “Before coming here I had a talk with Ethel’s cousin, Walter Ogden—he’s not a bad sort,” he added, and McLane contented himself with a silent nod of agreement. “Ogden told me not to take Ethel’s refusal to heart; said she didn’t know her mind two minutes running.”
“Oh!” the ejaculation escaped McLane involuntarily, and Patterson glanced at him sharply.
“You know Ethel?” he asked.
“Yes; she is a great friend of my wife, and we both think her a girl of strong character.” McLane sorted the papers on his desk methodically and laid them in a neat pile by his side. “Do not buoy yourself up with false hope, Patterson; sometimes it is less pain in the end to face things as they are.”
Patterson frowned. “I don’t think you gave up the girl of your choice when she was engaged to that scoundrel, James Donaldson,” he retorted doggedly. “And I’m not going to give Ethel up to Julian Barclay without a fight for it. You are sure you have never heard of Barclay?”
“I have never heard of Barclay before this afternoon,” answered McLane quietly. “I have just returned from Atlanta; had to remain there for the inquest on Dwight Tilghman.”
“So I saw by the newspapers,” Patterson drew out his cigar case and offered it to the surgeon. “Tilghman was a mighty bright fellow, and his murder a shocking affair—so unnecessary.”
“I also cannot see a motive for the crime,” replied McLane gravely. “I cannot believe that the Jap, Ito, killed him because Tilghman said he mistook him for a negro.”
Patterson blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and watched it drift away before answering.