Barclay was the first to speak. “Apoplexy?” he inquired, looking pityingly down at the still figure. His question received no reply.
“Porter, go call the conductor,” directed Shively. “No, stay, first show me into a vacant stateroom. Norcross, will you and Barclay carry Tilghman; I can make a more careful and complete examination in the privacy of a stateroom.”
The other occupants of the smoker had left immediately on the first call for dinner, and the porter leading the way, Professor Norcross and Barclay carried their burden into the forward stateroom of the car behind, encountering no one on their way to it. Shively stopped for a moment to glance keenly about the empty smoker, then followed the little procession into the stateroom.
“Suppose you return to the smoker, Barclay,” suggested Shively, bending over Tilghman and loosening his tie. “And—eh—just as a matter of form, see that nothing is disturbed in there. The porter is too rattled to be left in charge. And, Norcross, please step into my Pullman and get my grip. Don’t either of you mention Tilghman’s death just yet to the other passengers.”
“Very well,” promised the professor, and Barclay, contenting himself with a nod of agreement, went back to the smoker. Reaching the empty car he paced rapidly up and down the aisle, a feeling of horror growing upon him. The frail barrier between the quick and the dead had lifted momentarily—Tilghman, within arm’s reach of assistance, had died in their midst without a hand being raised to save him.
An involuntary shiver crept down Barclay’s spine, and he moistened his dry lips; he felt the need of stimulants. Remembering that he had loaned his flask to Tilghman, he moved reluctantly over to the chair the dead man had occupied and hunted about. The flask was not in sight. As he straightened up from investigating the corners of Tilghman’s chair, he saw Professor Norcross regarding him from the doorway, and glad to be no longer alone in the gloomy car, he joined him.
“Discovered what ailed Tilghman, Professor?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Norcross selected a chair in the middle of the car and Barclay balanced himself on the arm of one across the aisle. “Poor Tilghman! He so counted on enjoying this trip to Washington. It was his first visit east in nearly ten years.”
“Indeed? Had you known him long?”
“We met several years ago at Colonel Carter Calhoun’s residence during one of my trips to California.” The car tilted at an uncomfortable angle as the train raced around a curve, and Barclay almost slid into the professor’s lap. “Tilghman at one time was quite wealthy,” went on Norcross, reaching out a steadying hand. “Then he invested heavily in oil concessions both in this country and in Mexico; I imagine Calhoun had a good deal to do with putting him on his feet again.”