“Barclay was clever enough to take the bull by the horns,” added Norcross. “He forestalled all questions by announcing that he was chasing a burglar, a meritorious act. To others it will be a perfectly valid excuse for his appearance in the hall at that hour; but, unfortunately for him, we looked out of the window.” Norcross moved his chair closer.
“Had you seen Barclay before luncheon?”
“No.”
“Nor had I,” thoughtfully. “Then he chose the first opportunity to tell us in each other’s presence, of his pursuit of the so-called burglar.”
Ethel contemplated Norcross in despair; he was weaving a web about Barclay which even her loyalty could not ignore.
“Had Mr. Barclay known Dwight Tilghman for a long time?” she asked.
“No. I believe they met for the first time the night before Tilghman’s death.”
Ethel brightened. “Then, if they were virtually strangers, there could be no motive for the crime.”
Norcross did not answer at once, and when he finally spoke it was with reluctance. “We played poker that night on the train, and Dwight Tilghman won a large sum of money from Barclay, and yet when Tilghman’s personal belongings and baggage were examined after his death, the money was missing.”
Vaguely Ethel grasped his meaning. “No, I don’t believe it,” she cried. “It was no sordid crime, and if that is the only motive imputed to Julian for the murder of Tilghman, I’ll not believe him guilty.”