“They probably have,” agreed Patterson. “But you will get nothing out of those two men but what they want you to learn. There goes the curtain——”
Ethel never afterward remembered one word of what transpired on the stage; she was grateful for the darkness which concealed the agony she was enduring from too inquiring eyes. With dry lips and burning eyeballs she sat staring before her, combating with every reason she could command her growing conviction that, if not the actual criminal, Julian Barclay was, in some way responsible for Dwight Tilghman’s death. If he had not lied when asked his whereabouts in Atlanta! There must be extenuating circumstances—and yet he had lied. Of that Ethel was thoroughly convinced; she had come to know and read Julian Barclay’s expression as only a loving woman can during their brief, happy days together.
Under cover of the darkness Barclay edged back his chair until he could get an uninterrupted view of Ethel. He could only see the outline of her shapely head and shoulders, and he longed unspeakably for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand. In a sudden rush of passion all his loss came home to him, and an involuntary groan escaped between his clenched teeth. It was drowned in rounds of applause as the curtain descended at the end of the play.
“Now, Mr. Patterson, you must have supper with us at the New Willard,” announced Mrs. Ogden, rising to put on her wraps. “I shall not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“You are awfully kind, Mrs. Ogden.” Patterson looked appealingly at Ethel, but her face was averted and he only caught a glimpse of a flushed cheek. He was about to decline the invitation when his dogged perseverance gained the mastery. “I’ll come with pleasure.”
Barclay moved impulsively to help Ethel on with her cloak, then drew back as Patterson slipped it about her shoulders. Bah! it was Patterson’s right, he was the interloper, and turning, he made blindly for the stairs. Others were before him, however, and he made but slow progress. Suddenly he realized that Ethel was standing at his elbow. He was about to speak to her when he caught sight of a face in the crowd beneath them.
“There—look!” he cried, and his excitement communicated itself to Ethel.
“Where?” she eagerly scanned the crowd. “Oh, that’s Mr. Takasaki.” But her words were unheeded as Barclay, regardless of the crowd about them, forced his way down the staircase and out of the theater.
Ethel turned in bewilderment to Professor Norcross who was on her other side, and to his horror he found her eyes were filled with tears.
“Pay no attention to Barclay,” he whispered. “He is excitable—and tomorrow will be properly ashamed of his eccentric behavior. Ah, here is Mrs. Ogden.”