“A Japanese did poison Dwight Tilghman, not knife him,” he answered. “Norcross and I were passengers on the same train.”
“How horrible!” Ethel shivered. “Could no one prevent the crime?”
“No one was around—” Barclay waited until Patterson stopped speaking across him to Mrs. Ogden, and then continued. “The crime was apparently committed while the train was in the station at Atlanta.”
“Dear me, what a public place in which to commit murder,” chimed in Mrs. Ogden, not liking to be left too long out of the conversation. “I should have thought the murder would have been detected instantly.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” At that moment the orchestra ceased playing and in the sudden quiet Barclay’s voice rang out sharply. “The passengers were mostly strolling about the station or in Atlanta, during our enforced wait there, and the Pullman cars were left empty.”
“Did you go sight-seeing also, Barclay?” and as Patterson put the question his eyes never left Barclay’s face. His absorption prevented him observing Ethel’s eagerness. She held her breath for Barclay’s answer which was slow in coming.
“Yes,” he replied. Ethel’s taut muscles relaxed as she sank back in her chair. She had caught the expression in Barclay’s eyes, and it had given the lie to his spoken “Yes.” Barclay leaned further forward and spoke to her directly. “Have you ever come across a man named Yoshida Ito among your Japanese friends?” he asked.
“What is it?” she mumbled, and raised her handkerchief to conceal her trembling lips.
“Have you ever met a Japanese named Yoshida Ito?” repeated Norcross, as the orchestra resumed playing and drowned Barclay’s voice. “He is the man who is thought to have murdered Tilghman.”
“Yoshida Ito?” Ethel shook her head. “I will ask the ambassador and Mr. Takasaki; perhaps they may have heard of him.”