By Natalie Sumner Lincoln

The Nameless Man
I Spy
The Official Chaperon
C. O. D.
The Man Inside
The Lost Despatch
The Trevor Case

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK

“There—look!” he cried, and his excitement communicated
itself to Ethel.
[PAGE 136]

The
NAMELESS MAN

By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

AUTHOR OF “I SPY,” “THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON,” “C. O. D.,”
“THE MAN INSIDE,” “THE TREVOR CASE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
H. R. BALLINGER

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK    LONDON
1917

Copyright, 1917, by D. Appleton and Company
Copyright, 1917, by the McCall Company
Printed in the United States of America

TO
MRS. FREDERICK DEMING
OF LITCHFIELD, CONNECTICUT,
WHOSE GRACIOUS HOSPITALITY AND KINDLY
INTEREST INSURED ITS PRODUCTION,
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE NAMELESS MAN

CHAPTER I
SHADOWS

The invigorating breeze, stirring the leaves of the vines and rambler roses which grew in profusion over the trellis-covered veranda, carried, apparently, no comfort to the man seated there. He stared ahead of him, oblivious to his surroundings, the handsome rugs covering the veranda floor, the out-of-door furniture, the well-kept lawns and flower beds. He was only conscious of a growing distaste for the brilliant California sunshine, the blue of the heavens and the vivid colors of the foliage; they did not match his brooding discontent.

A sudden stronger puff of wind carried a paper, loosely held in his fingers, to the floor, and too indolent to move, he planted his white-shod foot on it, leaving exposed the words: “By order of the Court.”

“Oh, here you are,” exclaimed a voice from the direction of the living room, and a middle-aged man stepped through the open French window on to the veranda and sat down heavily in one of the lounging chairs. “Seen these?” tossing several newspapers on the table.

“Yes,” answered his companion. “Washington doesn’t appear to have taken kindly to your speech.”

Colonel Calhoun’s florid face turned a deeper red.

“The truth isn’t always pleasant,” he growled. “It’s not nice to read that fancied security is fancy and nothing more. Japan has our measure, and has spent years preparing to become mistress of the Pacific Ocean.”

“So they say—here,” and the slight emphasis on the last word caused Calhoun’s eyes to flash with pent-up indignation.

“That’s Washington’s game, trying to make it a local issue,” he explained heatedly. “Whereas, the control of the Pacific affects every business man, every farmer in America. For the sake of our millions invested in commerce we must guard this ocean; keep uninterrupted our trade with China and the Orient; guard the waterway to Alaska, a country of still undeveloped riches; keep the path clear to the Philippine Islands, Guam, and Hawaii. Trade supremacy can sometimes only be maintained by war. We shall have to fight for it.”

His companion nodded. “Shouldn’t wonder if we did,” he agreed listlessly, “when Japan says the word.”

“Yes, and when she strikes she will strike quickly. Look,” Calhoun indicated a map lying across a chair. “We have well-fortified harbors, yes, but an undefended coast line easily accessible to an enemy. Japanese spies have been caught with reports of these fortifications, with plans of the forts guarding the Golden Gate; and caught taking soundings of the unfortified harbor of Monterey. It means that some day the ‘Yellow’ man hopes to supplant the white American, as we, in our time, supplanted the American red Indian.”

Calhoun’s companion laughed. “It’s not surprising that the cartoonists caricature you as a saffron-hued jingoist.”

“Let them,” Calhoun shrugged his broad shoulders. “They’ll reverse themselves, as did the Administration in the matter of the Panama Canal tolls,—the price of our coastal rights being the sop thrown to England to keep us out of war with her ally, Japan.”

“Well, what England did once she may do again,” retorted the other lazily.

“With America prepared we will require no nation’s intervention in our behalf,” declared Calhoun proudly. “But until we are——” The speaker rose and paced back and forth. “Dreaming of vast empire, the foremost men of Japan are planning and scheming for that nation’s territorial advancement.”

“You’ll have some difficulty convincing America of that fact,” said his companion skeptically.

“True.” Calhoun struck his clenched fist into his left hand. “The majority of Americans think me a dreamer, or, at worst, a war-mad jingoist. Yesterday a high government official declared: ‘If Calhoun had half the brains he thinks he has, he’d be half-witted.’ The fools!” added Calhoun bitterly. “It’s cheap to ridicule me, cheaper even than burying dead Americans in trenches. Japan is crouching for the spring; racial hatred is fanning the flame, and her emissaries are everywhere. I’d willingly give $10,000 to the man who will unearth and expose the Japanese cabal which, I believe, as I believe in God, is being conducted in Washington City today right under the nose of our government officials.”

His companion laid down his unopened cigarette case, his eyes for a second seeking the paper still held on the floor by his foot—“By order of the Court”—a sudden movement and his other foot covered the words.

“Get out your check book, Calhoun,” he said. “I will go to Washington.”

CHAPTER II
THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA

Julian Barclay scanned the total of a column of figures with a wry face; his card game of the night before had been costly, and with an inward resolve to forego another, he looked out of the smoking-car window. But the flying landscape did not hold his attention, and his eyes wandered back to his fellow passengers, the majority of whom were well-to-do tourists, several commercial travelers, and a few professional men. Not far from him sat Professor Norcross in animated conversation with Dr. Shively who, with Barclay, had boarded the fast California express at New Orleans. Barclay’s glance traveled on until it reached the man who had made the fourth at the card game. He had taken a dislike to Dwight Tilghman, for during the game he had received the impression that he was being quietly watched. The belief had grown upon him as the play progressed, and the quiet espionage had bred resentment. Tilghman’s indolent slowness of movement had been in direct contrast [Pg 7]to his intent watchfulness, and Barclay had wondered if Dr. Shively and Professor Norcross had thought Tilghman’s manner peculiar. Richard Norcross, known to Barclay by his fame as a naturalist but met for the first time in the train the night before, had been Tilghman’s traveling companion for some days.

Barclay, sitting back in his chair studying Tilghman, saw him start, lean forward, and look down the car. A newcomer stood just within the entrance surveying the car and its occupants, then moved up the aisle. With a smothered ejaculation, Tilghman sprang into the aisle, hand upraised, only to stumble forward, swaying like a drunken man.

The sound of the scuffle echoed down the car above the noise of the rapidly moving train. In an instant the passengers were on their feet, some intent on reaching the struggling men and others only desirous of obtaining a closer view. But the intervention of the more venturesome was not required, and a second later Barclay was bending over Tilghman, who measured his length in the aisle, while the conductor and several passengers collared his small opponent. A pull at Barclay’s hastily offered flask, and Tilghman somewhat shakily regained his feet, as the Japanese passenger strove to explain the situation to the indignant conductor.

“A meeting, honorable sir, in this just too small space and a loss of balance.” The Japanese with some difficulty kept his footing as the train rounded a sharp curve. Clicking his heels together, with shoulders and elbows drawn back, finger-tips touching, he drew a long hissing breath as he bowed in salutation to the men grouped about him. “Pardon, honorable sirs.”

“How about it, Mr. Tilghman?” demanded the conductor, and all eyes turned toward the disheveled American.

“A little congestion and, eh, hasty action,” he drawled. “The train took a curve on the high, and as I fell I saw our friend here”—indicating the Japanese—“mistook him for a yellow nigger standing in my way and lashed out——”

Barclay looked sharply at the Japanese. Did he understand the insult implied in the apology, or was his knowledge of English too limited? But he learned nothing by his scrutiny, for the parchment-like face was as inscrutable as the Sphinx, and Barclay turned his attention to Tilghman. He had distinctly seen a paper pass between the two men; why then had Tilghman and the Japanese staged the opéra bouffe affair?

The conductor, much perturbed, scratched his head as he gazed at first one man and then another.

“Well, seeing as how you both call it an accident, I reckon there’s nothing more to be said,” he grumbled. “But recollect, gentlemen, this railroad does not permit quarreling.”

The Japanese, bowing gravely to the silent men, departed into the forward Pullman, and the group about Tilghman dispersed. Julian Barclay having resumed his seat and his contemplation of the scenery through the car window, was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he became aware that Dwight Tilghman was standing at his elbow.

“Can I share that flask you offered me when I was lying on the floor?” he inquired. “The fall shook me up more than I realized.”

A look at Tilghman’s white face convinced Barclay that he was telling the truth, and his interest quickened; the scuffle had not been entirely opéra bouffe after all. Drawing out his flask he passed it to Tilghman.

“It hurts my pride,” went on Tilghman, seating himself in the next chair, “to be licked by a little slip of a man in such a rough and tumble encounter.”

“Muscle doesn’t stand much show against jiu-jutsu.” Barclay declined the other’s offer of a cigarette. “Better think a second time before tackling a Jap,” he cautioned.

“A Jap!” echoed Tilghman, and he smiled queerly as he selected a cigarette. “The color line is so closely drawn in this section of the world I’m surprised the railroad officials permit a yellow man to travel on the San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington Express except in the ‘Jim Crow’ car.”

“That sounds like insular prejudice,” smiled Barclay. “Except for your name and accent, which proclaim you a Marylander, I should hail you as——”

“A Californian?” Tilghman nodded. “It’s the state of my adoption. We manage everything better out there.”

“Well, why not stay in California?” Barclay rapped out the abrupt question, never taking his eyes from his good-looking companion, whose white cheeks were regaining a more healthy hue from the stimulant he was slowly sipping.

“I had to come east to protest against government ownership of oil lands in California. I’m one of the unfortunate devils who invested money there before the public land was withdrawn from entry by executive order. Congress is to legislate on the question shortly. I believe Navy Department officials are chiefly responsible for the deadlock.”

“I take it your sympathies are for a little navy?”

“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” protested Tilghman, with more warmth than the occasion seemed to justify. “Just because I don’t believe in government ownership of oil lands.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” argued Barclay. “Oil is the fuel for future battleships; we are exporting thousands of gallons of oil; it’s time we conserved our resources.”

“But not by government ownership,” retorted Tilghman. “Let the government get oil concessions in Mexico and keep them. What’s our Monroe Doctrine for but to make us a protectorate over most of the western hemisphere? We can drive out the other Johnnies when they try and tap our foreign resources.”

“With an adequate navy, yes,” laughed Barclay. “But you have a curious conception of the meaning of the Monroe Doctrine.”

“Not at all!” Tilghman warmed to the subject. “The Monroe Doctrine is just another definition of ‘dog in the manger’—we won’t let other nations have what we won’t take. It’s a shameful waste of opportunity for territorial advancement.”

“At the expense of smaller nations?” dryly.

“Ah, well, the battle goes to the strong.” Tilghman turned languidly and beckoned to the porter. “Is this Atlanta we are approaching?” he asked the negro.

“Yessir, an’ ’pears like we’ll be hyar mos’ two hours, ’cause there’s a washout ahead. De conductor says as how de passengers can go off an’ see de city, but dey mus’ be back hyar widdin an hour an’ a half.”

Barclay rose and stretched himself. “Think I’ll go and take a run around the block,” he announced, smothering a yawn. “Come along?”

But Tilghman shook his head, and watched Barclay’s tall, erect figure pass down the aisle with a touch of envy. The other men in the smoker, pausing to exchange a word with him, filed out of the car, and Tilghman, left to his own resources, placed his tickets in the band of his hat, pulled the brim over his face; lowered the window shade, braced his legs on a convenient ledge, poured out a liberal portion of raw spirits in the silver cup of Barclay’s flask, and holding the cup in his hand, settled back in his chair and, closing his eyes, sipped the brandy at intervals.

Julian Barclay, whistling cheerily, was making his way out of the station at Atlanta when the crowd ahead of him parted, and he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Wheeling about with an abruptness that brought him into violent collision with the Japanese whose behavior in the train had so excited his interest, Barclay, never glancing at him, raced back to the train.

Two hours later Barclay stood in the vestibule of his Pullman as the train pulled out on its long trip northward, and debated whether to enter the smoker or return to his section. The stronger inclination won and, nodding in a friendly fashion to the Japanese who stood on the opposite side of the vestibule, Barclay entered the car on his way to the smoker.

Except for Dwight Tilghman sitting at the further end, Barclay found the smoker deserted, and dropped into the nearest chair, lighted a cigar, opened a newspaper and soon became immersed in its contents. Some time later the conductor paused before Tilghman, removed the tickets from his hatband and, refraining from waking him, passed on up the car collecting fares.

The shadows of the winter day were lengthening when the dining car steward’s announcement: “First call for dinner,” aroused the half dozen men in the smoker.

Professor Norcross, who had been chatting with Julian Barclay, broke off to ask: “Where’s my dinner partner? Here, porter, go tell Mr. Tilghman it’s time for dinner. Won’t you sit at our table tonight?” he added, addressing Barclay. “Dr. Shively will make the fourth.”

“Thanks, I’ll be very glad to do so,” and Barclay rose with alacrity; he had not lunched at Atlanta, and his appetite was sharpened by the fast. Further speech was cut short by a shout from the porter.

“I can’t wake Mister Tilghman,” he called, his eyes rolling in fright. “He musta had a stroke.”

“Nonsense!” Dr. Shively dropped the book he was reading, and hastened down the aisle. But his air of skepticism disappeared as he bent over Tilghman who, owing to the vigorous shaking administered by the porter, was sprawling half out of his chair. The physician lifted the hat which had slipped over Tilghman’s face, and pulled down an eyelid. One glance at the glazing eyeball, a touch of the pulse, and Shively faced toward Julian Barclay and Professor Norcross who had followed him down the aisle.

“Dead,” he announced. “Stone dead.”

CHAPTER III
WAYS THAT ARE DARK

An awed silence followed Dr. Shively’s announcement.

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.”

“Was he married?”

“I believe not. He told me that he expected to visit Dr. Leonard McLane in Washington, and said the latter was his nearest living relative. I shall wire McLane from the next station. Ah, here’s the conductor,” as that uniformed official, looking much perturbed, came in. “Did you see Dr. Shively?”

“Yes, Professor.” The conductor mopped his face with a large handkerchief. “Mr. Tilghman’s sudden taking off has been a shock. Why didn’t he mention that he was ill when I took his ticket?”

“Heaven knows!” Norcross shook his head pityingly. “We were all within call. Did he appear ill, Conductor?”

“I didn’t get a good look at his face, for his hat was pulled down low over his forehead. Judging from his attitude that he was asleep, I took pains not to disturb him, as he had told me only this morning that he hadn’t slept well on this trip, owing to a bad tooth.”

“Aside from toothache, I never heard Tilghman complain of feeling badly,” said Norcross. “He looked the picture of health, strong—wiry——”

“His scuffle this noon with the Japanese may have been more serious than we imagined,” suggested Barclay slowly. “The Jap resorted to jiu-jutsu, and it’s a nasty thing to run up against.”

“True,” agreed Norcross. “I’ve seen something of that science in the East, and have heard of men sometimes dying from apoplexy after a blow.”

“But that did not follow in this instance,” broke in Dr. Shively, joining them. “I am glad to have found you all together. Conductor, here is the key of the stateroom; I have locked Tilghman’s body in there, and have stationed the porter outside this car with instructions to let no one in until you give him permission.”

“Seems to me that’s pretty extreme,” exclaimed the conductor.

“I did it because I must have a word with you in private, and this car must be thoroughly searched before other passengers are admitted.”

“Why?” demanded the conductor. The physician’s grave manner impressed them all and they gathered nearer in silence.

“Tilghman was murdered.”

“What?” chorused the men.

“Good God! Who did it?” demanded Barclay, recovering somewhat from his astonishment, while Professor Norcross asked:

“How was the crime committed?”

“One at a time.” Shively held up a protesting hand. “It is for us to discover who is the murderer.”

“Was he stabbed, sir?” asked the conductor.

“No; nor shot.” The physician seated himself and checked his remarks off on his fingers. “On superficial examination here, I concluded that Tilghman had died from cardiac syncope; he had apparently every symptom. But it happened that last night he came to me and asked for some cocaine to deaden the pain in his tooth. Before treating him with the cocaine, I tested his heart and found he had no valvular weakness. Therefore I was astounded as well as horrified by his sudden death, and determined to make an examination.”

“An autopsy?” gasped the conductor.

“Oh, no.” Shively leaned forward and spoke louder, to make sure that he was heard above the rattle of the train. “I could find no mark on Tilghman’s body; he had most certainly not been either stabbed or shot. And then, although all indications were against my theory, I thought of poison.”

“Did you have a stomach pump with you?” asked Norcross, who was listening with absorbed attention.

“Unfortunately, no. But on examining Tilghman’s mouth I detected the odor of alcohol, and removing the absorbent cotton from the cavity in his lower back tooth, I submitted it to chemical tests and found traces of a solution of oxalic acid and brandy.”

Barclay turned cold. Brandy containing poison? Where in the world was his flask? What had become of it? His thoughts running riot, he listened dazedly to the conductor’s excited questions.

“What’s oxalic acid?” asked the latter.

“A vegetable poison, better known under the name of ‘salts of lemon’; a powder which, if dissolved in alcohol, kills almost instantly,” was the reply. “Also, the symptoms it produces are identical with heart failure, the acid producing manifestation of great weakness, small pulse, and failure of the heart’s power.”

“So Tilghman simply faded away before our eyes,” exclaimed Norcross sorrowfully. “Oh, the pity of it!”

“He didn’t die before our eyes,” retorted Shively tartly. “By the condition of the body I judge Tilghman had been dead about six hours.”

His listeners stared at him, astounded.

“Do you mean to say Mr. Tilghman sat in that chair with us all about him, stone dead, and we never discovered it for six hours?” questioned the conductor in open incredulity.

“Exactly.”

“Well, that beats time!” muttered the conductor.

“Where were we six hours ago?” asked Norcross.

The conductor consulted his watch. “In Atlanta,” he answered.

“I imagine that was where the crime was committed,” said Shively. “Who was in this car beside Tilghman during the two hours we were in that station?”

“I don’t know,” returned the conductor. “But I can easily find out by asking the porter,” and he hastened out of the smoker, to reappear a second later with the porter.

“No, suh, there wasn’t no one in this here smoker while we was in Atlanta ’cept Mr. Tilghman,” declared the negro, on being questioned. “Not a soul, I’ll take my Bible oath to that. I looked in here a few minutes after de train stopped an’ Mr. Tilghman was a settin’ in de chair jus’ as ca’m an’ peaceful, an’ I went outside an’ stood on de platform by de steps at dat end, an’ didn’t no one pass into de car while we was in de station.”

“How about this end of the car?” questioned the conductor. “The vestibule——”

“Norcross and I sat there and smoked the whole time we were in Atlanta, except for the first twenty minutes when we got some lunch at the station restaurant,” broke in Shively sharply. “No one entered the car while we were there. If the crime was committed it was done during the first twenty minutes the train was in the station.”

“Did Mr. Tilghman order any brandy, porter?” asked Norcross.

“No, suh, he didn’t.”

“Might it not be that Tilghman, in a moment of despondency, killed himself?” asked Norcross, turning to the physician. “He carried a brandy flask in his bag.”

“If a death is possibly suicidal, it is also possibly homicidal,” explained Shively. “The brandy flask is still in Tilghman’s bag, full to the brim and entirely free from oxalic acid.”

“He might have borrowed a flask from some one,” suggested Barclay slowly. “And added the poison himself.”

“Quite true, he might have. But if it’s a case of suicide, where is the flask?” asked Shively. “Tilghman didn’t swallow that also.”

“Let’s hunt for it,” and the conductor started forward.

“Did you look about the car when you first entered, Barclay?” asked the professor.

“Yes.” Barclay passed his hand over the upholstered back of a chair. “But I didn’t find anything remotely resembling a flask.”

“Strange,” muttered Shively. “I found no flask in his pockets, and he certainly did not move out of that chair after swallowing the poison. Porter, were any of these windows opened?”

“Yessuh, an’ dey is still open wid de screens in jes’ as I lef dem.”

“True. Well, he couldn’t have flung a flask through a window glass or a screen without doing considerable damage, of which there is no indication; besides which, the action of the poison is very swift, he would not have had the strength to make any such attempt.” Dropping on his knees Shively, with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass, examined the carpet beneath Tilghman’s chair and the chair itself. “There is no stain, showing Tilghman did not drop the cup out of which he was drinking. No, no, someone else was in this car, administered the poison, and carried off the incriminating glass or flask.”

“Then it must have been that little Jap, Mr. Ito,” ejaculated the conductor. “He’s got the creepiest ways, and there was bad blood between him and Mr. Tilghman, witness their fight this noon.”

“Suppose you bring Mr. Ito here,” suggested Norcross, then addressing Shively. “It will do no harm to question him.”

The physician nodded, and drawing out his notebook made several entries; neither he nor Norcross paid attention to Julian Barclay, who was striding nervously up and down the aisle. Should he speak of having loaned his flask to Tilghman? Would they believe him entirely innocent if they knew— The entrance of the Japanese and the conductor broke in on his troubled cogitations.

The Japanese stopped before Dr. Shively, bowed profoundly, and waited in impressive silence for him to speak.

“Mr. Ito,” began Shively, with a courteous acknowledgment of the other’s salutation. “I sent for you to inform you that Mr. Tilghman is dead.”

“Who is Mr. Tilghman?” inquired Ito.

“The man you fought here this morning.”

“I no fought man,” denied Ito politely. “Stranger fell upon me and I struggled to stand—that all. Mr. Tilghman, you say his name, he no well when he stagger and fall on me, and now he dead?”

“And now he is dead,” repeated Shively, raising his voice so as to be heard above the rumble of the train. “Dead, from drinking a poisonous compound derived from rice.”

“So?” Ito reflected. “It what you call ‘hard luck.’”

Shively’s color rose. “It is ‘hard luck’ which I call upon you to explain,” he said stiffly. “Kindly inform me where you spent your time during the two hours this train was in Atlanta.”

“Why you ask?”

“Because during that time or, to be more exact, six hours ago, Mr. Tilghman was poisoned by drinking brandy containing a solution of oxalic acid. Where were you at that time, Mr. Ito?”

“You say he died six hours ago?” The Japanese consulted his watch and did some rapid calculating. “That make time he swallow poison five minutes past twelve. At that hour I was in public ribrary in Atlanta. I talk with ribrarian and take out book card—he stamp time on it. If you no believe, wire ribrarian at my expense and see I tell truth.”

Shively looked at Norcross and Barclay and then back at Ito.

“The seriousness of the situation obliges me to get corroboration of your statement, Mr. Ito,” he said. “I shall wire at the first opportunity to the Atlanta library.”

“Then now’s your chance,” broke in the conductor. “We are just stopping at Greenville.”

“Can you hold the train for an answer?” asked Shively.

“No, we are late already and must make up time,” called the conductor, as he made for the door. “Wire the librarian to send his answer to meet the train at Spartanburg, our next stop.”

Shively made ready to follow the conductor. “Keep your eye on Ito,” he muttered to Barclay in passing, then louder: “Come with me, Norcross. I want you to telegraph to Spartanburg for a stomach pump, while I get a wire off to the librarian.”

A second more and Barclay and the Japanese had the smoker to themselves. Barclay did not relish being stared out of countenance by a bit of yellow parchment, but he never permitted his glance to waver before the steady regard of the oblique black eyes. Ito was the first to speak.

“Will the honorable sir permit that I dine?” he asked.

At the request Barclay awoke to the realization that he was half famished. Tilghman’s tragic death had put all thought of dinner out of his mind. Obviously he must not let the Japanese out of his sight, and there was surely no better place than a dining car for keeping him in full view.

“Of course you can dine,” he said cheerily. “We both will; go ahead, Mr. Ito, and I’ll follow.”

They made their way through the long train and on reaching the dining car were given a table for two. After giving his order to their waiter, Barclay settled back in his chair with a sigh of relief; the change from the gloomy smoker and its tragic happenings, to the cheery dining car, flooded with light and echoing with the laughter and chatter of gay passengers, was a tonic in itself to his frayed nerves.

Not waiting for the return of their waiter, Barclay lifted the carafe and leaning over poured some water into Ito’s glass. The courtesy received no acknowledgment, for the Japanese was intent on drawing a design on the spotless tablecloth. Barclay watched each stroke of the pencil in idle curiosity, but suddenly the carafe remained poised in air, for with the skill of a born artist, there grew under the Japanese’s hand an exquisite design of the chrysanthemum—the identical design which, done in delicate tracery, made Julian Barclay’s silver brandy flask unique.

CHAPTER IV
THE ALIBI

“You deny, then, having seen that chrysanthemum design on my silver flask?” persisted Barclay, his anger rising at Ito’s evasive replies to his repeated question.

The Japanese thoughtfully contemplated the soup tureen which the waiter placed impartially midway between the two men.

“I am originator of designs, honorable sir,” he said blandly. “It is possibly so that my sketch was used in decorating your flask. Show me flask and I tell you.”

“I’ve—I’ve lost my flask,” stammered Barclay. If the Japanese really had been at the Atlanta library at the hour Tilghman was poisoned he would know nothing of the flask, and he might be one of the Japanese employed by large silversmiths in this country to furnish them designs. But if he had been present at Tilghman’s murder and had guilty knowledge—Barclay’s stubborn chin became more pronounced; his future actions, however, hinged on the little man’s alibi. “Mr. Ito,” he began deliberately, “you state that you are an artistic designer traveling in America to get in personal touch with your customers. But your name is not one usually associated with trade in your own country.”

Ito sipped his black coffee meditatively. “I poor Nipponese,” he announced. “You rich American. I travel in your country to make money; you traveled in my country,” Ito paused to pepper his soup, “and bought curios.”

The quick retort on Barclay’s lips remained unspoken as Shively stopped at their table.

“The engineer is making up time,” he said, clinging to the table as the train went around a mountain curve and unbalanced him for the moment. “We’ll be in Spartanburg very soon. Norcross and I are sitting here,” and he joined the professor at the table directly across from them.

Barclay passed a relish to the Japanese in silence, and still without speaking they continued their dinner, each apparently immersed in his own thoughts.

If Ito observed that he was watched by Shively and Norcross as well as Barclay, there was no effort on his part to hasten the service of the meal, and he waited with patient courtesy for Barclay to finish before rising.

“My car next,” he volunteered, taking his hat from the waiter.

“Go ahead, I’ll come with you.” Barclay pushed back his chair impatiently and his long stride quickly brought him up with his companion, but not in time to exchange a word in private, for Shively was at their side with Professor Norcross in tow.

“Are these your traps, Mr. Ito?” Shively pointed to two suitcases, an overcoat, and an umbrella propped up in one of the sections of the sleeper.

“Yes, honorable doctor.” Ito gravely picked up his overcoat and umbrella. “We approach Spartanburg——”

“We do,” dryly. “Just drawing into the station in fact, and here’s the conductor. Don’t move, Mr. Ito,” and Shively’s deep voice spoke command. “Wait.”

“Here’s your telegram, Doctor, the station master threw it to me.” The conductor was a trifle breathless. “What does it say, sir?”

Snatching it from him Shively tore open the dispatch and scanned it hurriedly. A look of perplexity replaced his eagerness as he read the message aloud.

Yoshida Ito was in library from noon until twenty minutes of two P. M. today. Had long talk with him.

C. L. Glenworth, librarian.

The Japanese, standing hat in hand, overcoat over arm, spoke first.

“Is it permitted that I go?” he asked, addressing all but looking at Shively.

“Surely.” The conductor stepped aside and Ito, bowing gravely, motioned to the waiting porter to take his suitcases, and started for the vestibule of the sleeper.

“One moment,” protested Shively, and Ito stopped, but again the conductor interfered.

“Go ahead, Mr. Ito,” he directed, and added, as Shively opened his mouth to expostulate, “No, no, Doctor, you can’t hold Mr. Ito, for you haven’t proved one thing against him; the librarian confirms his alibi.”

“But why should he leave the train at once, unless he’s running away?” demanded Norcross.

“Mr. Ito was only traveling as far as this anyway,” explained the conductor hurriedly. “His ticket read from Mobile to Spartanburg.”

On impulse Barclay wheeled about and made for the vestibule of the sleeper, but on reaching the platform he found he was too late—Yoshida Ito had vanished. Barclay returned to the smoker in time to hear the conductor’s concluding remark to Dr. Shively.

“Very well, Doctor,” he was saying. “Seeing that this Dr. Leonard McLane, whom Mr. Tilghman was on his way to visit, is his nearest relative, I’ll carry the body to Washington, but there the undertaker will have to ship it back to Atlanta for the coroner’s inquest, provided, of course, that Mr. Tilghman was really poisoned, as the crime must have been committed in the Atlanta jurisdiction.”

“Quite right,” acknowledged Shively. “The porter has just brought me the stomach pump I telegraphed for, and in your presence, Conductor, and that of Professor Norcross and Mr. Barclay, I will make a further and fuller test for trace of poison.”

“That sounds reasonable.” The worried railroad employee looked somewhat relieved. “I’ll join you in the stateroom as soon as the train leaves here. Let me give you the key to the stateroom,” and he dropped it into the physician’s hand.

With a strong feeling of reluctance Barclay accompanied Shively and Norcross into the stateroom. Shively had done what he could with the means at his command to convert the stateroom into an operating office; his bag, bottles, instruments—the latter lying in neat array on one of the couches on which was spread a white sheet. A sheet also was thrown over Tilghman’s body, lying on the other couch. The scene brought vividly to Barclay’s mind the clinics he had attended years before, and as he sniffed the pungent odor of disinfectants, he almost imagined himself back once more obeying the directions of a famous surgeon. Shively’s voice recalled him to his surroundings.

“I examined Tilghman’s pockets hoping to find some clew of the murderer,” explained Shively. “And took pains to replace each article as I found it, as Norcross can testify.” The professor confirmed his statement with a vigorous nod.

“Did you discover anything which might turn into a clew?” inquired Barclay eagerly.

“Nothing that I considered a clew, but the police may have better luck.” Shively paused to tear open the package he carried, and fitting the instrument together, laid it with others on the couch. “A letter from Dr. McLane, a bunch of keys, a bill folder containing several hundred dollars, some loose change, and that is all.”

“A meager list for identification purposes,” commented Barclay.

“If I could only lay my hands on the flask, or glass, from which Tilghman drank the brandy,” fumed Shively. “Then I’d have the murderer.” The opening of the door interrupted him. “Ah, Conductor, come in and close the door; now, if you are ready we can commence.”

Several times while the stomach pump was in use Barclay became conscious of Shively’s scrutiny, and he mentally cursed the instinct which betrayed his familiarity with medical instruments. Suddenly Shively held up a test tube, and his expression told the conductor what his lack of medical knowledge prevented him from grasping sooner.

“So Mr. Tilghman was poisoned,” he stated, rather than asked.

“Yes, and by a dose of oxalic acid calculated to kill a dozen men,” said Shively gravely. “Who could have administered it?”

“Who, indeed?” Barclay spoke with more force than he realized, and colored as they turned toward him. “I’m going to make it my business to find out, Dr. Shively. Good night,” and not waiting for a reply he stepped into the corridor and made his way swiftly back to his own Pullman.

Barclay had been fortunate enough to secure an entire section to himself, owing to the scarcity of passengers, for the rush had set in to the south, and few were traveling northward. He found his berth not yet made up, and sinking back in his seat he thought over the events of the day. A painful desire to sneeze sent his fingers searching his pockets for a handkerchief, and in drawing it out a small object fell in his lap. After replacing his handkerchief Barclay picked up the chamois-covered bundle and unwound it. A girl’s face smiled up at him from the hollow of his hand.

Barclay looked and looked again at the miniature, unable to believe his eyes. How had a painting of a total stranger gotten into one of his pockets? He turned over the miniature hoping to find some name or initial engraved on its back, but the handsome gold case was as blank as Barclay’s mind. Gradually his dazed wits grasped the beauty of the girl. The artist had done full justice to the exquisite coloring and contour of the face, the golden curly hair, and the deep blue eyes, eyes so direct and clear they held his gaze, and he was conscious of a tantalizing wish to see her lips break into the smile which hovered in her eyes.

Barclay attempted to open the case, but there was no sign of hinge or spring, and fearing to break the ivory miniature in attempting to force it open, he rewrapped the gold case in the chamois and replaced it in his pocket. Could it be that someone on the train had dropped the miniature and he had absent-mindedly pocketed it? He racked his brain trying to recall each action of the day, but the miniature bore apparently no relation to any of them. How had it been slipped inside his pocket unknown to him? The thing smelt of legerdemain, and instantly his thoughts flew to the Japanese—but that was impossible. The girl was an American and her refinement and high bred air instantly placed her social position; she would not be likely to permit her miniature to be carried about by a Japanese designer, an artist—Good Lord!

Barclay stared in blank dismay at the seat before him, and gradually awoke to the realization that he was gazing directly at Professor Norcross, who had seated himself there a second or two before. With an effort Barclay pulled himself together.

“I’m glad you haven’t turned in,” said the professor. “For my own part I can’t sleep. Listen, Barclay,” he moved over and sat down by the latter. “I have made the most astounding discovery——”

“What is that?” asked Barclay, as the professor paused to permit a passenger promenading the aisle to pass out of hearing.

“We have let a murderer slip through our fingers,” groaned the professor.

“Then you have identified——?”

“Ito?” breaking in on Barclay’s question. “Yes.”

“But——”

“Listen!” Norcross spoke slowly and emphasized each point. “Ito was the only person on the train who had a motive for the crime. Tilghman insulted him grossly; nothing so infuriates a Japanese as to be classed with a negro; they are the proudest race in the world. Ito took prompt retaliation on Tilghman for——”

“But how, Professor?” Barclay interrupted in his turn. “It has been proved by the librarian that Ito was at the Atlanta library at noon today, and Tilghman was poisoned at that same hour in the smoking car of this train.”

“Tilghman was killed here at noon, but not at the identical hour. Ito was at the library—man, you forget that Atlanta goes by central time, which is one hour slower than the eastern time, which prevails on this train——”

“Then you mean——?”

“That calculating by our watches Ito poisoned Tilghman at noon and an hour later, which by our time would be one o’clock, and by Atlanta time would be noon, was in the library. Thus he had ample opportunity to commit the crime and establish a perfectly good alibi at the Atlanta library.”

“But the Atlanta librarian telegraphed he was there at noon——”

“Of course, he was going by central time which, as I have just mentioned, prevails in Atlanta. We have been going by our watches which are one hour ahead of Atlanta. And between us we have muddled things up finely.”

“Let me get this clear!” Barclay rumpled his hair with both hands. “Going by Atlanta time, Ito poisoned Tilghman at eleven o’clock this morning, and was at the library at twelve?”

“Exactly.”

“But by the time prevailing on this train and our watches, Ito poisoned Tilghman at twelve o’clock and was at the library at one—and relying on our forgetting in our excitement the difference of time, handed us a perfectly good alibi.”

“You’ve put it in a nutshell.” Norcross rose. “The only opportunity the murderer had of entering the smoker unobserved was during the first twenty minutes following the train’s arrival in Atlanta. After that Shively and I stood in the vestibule smoking, while the porter was standing at the other end of the car until the train pulled out of the station.”

“How did you happen to think of the difference in time?” asked Barclay detaining the professor.

“Shively observed the hour stamped on the Atlanta telegram and commented on the fact that it was sent before he had wired, then we looked up the question of time, and that gave us the clew. To think of Ito putting it over on us.” The professor clenched his fists. “I’d like to put my hands on him.”

“So would I,” agreed Barclay cordially. “I have quite a number of questions to ask him,” and a mental vision of the girl of the miniature obscured for the moment the kindly, clever face of the naturalist.

CHAPTER V
RECOGNITION

“Please tell Mrs. Ogden, Rose, that I will join her at once.”

“Very well, Miss Ogden,” and the trim maid departed.

Ethel Ogden, conscious that she had made a hurried toilet, and feeling but half awake, paused before her cheval glass and took a final look at her costume and hair, patting a stray curl into place, then left her bedroom in search of her cousin. She had a dim impression that to be late for breakfast would rank with one of the crimes of the Decalogue in the eyes of Walter Ogden.

The climate in Washington that winter had proved too severe for Ethel’s father, and by the advice of his physician he had gone in December to winter with friends in Atlanta. Mrs. Ogden, torn between anxiety for her husband and her desire to be with Ethel, had thankfully accepted their cousins’ invitation to have Ethel spend the winter with them.

Walter Ogden had been a frequent visitor to the National Capital for a dozen years or more, and in times gone by, before he had made his not inconsiderable fortune, Commodore Ogden had assisted him financially on several occasions. Both Walter Ogden and his wife had urged Ethel to visit them in their western home, but she had never been able to accept. Their last invitation had solved many difficulties for it enabled her to remain in Washington and continue her work.

Commodore Ogden, who had retired before the age limit from the United States Navy on account of old wounds, had found, some years before, his modest savings swept away in unfortunate speculation, and outstanding debts had further crippled his resources. Ethel, to the horror of her mother, whose old-fashioned ideas did not include a tolerant view of the modern woman, had found her metier in teaching English to foreigners residing in Washington, and with the salary received from her pupils dressed herself and contributed to the household expenses.

During the forty-eight hours she had been with her cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Ogden, she had seen little of them, owing to her own business and social engagements, and had not had time to properly adjust herself to the household routine. The house was a large one, and reaching an intersecting corridor in the wide wall, Ethel paused in indecision. Had she turned to her right or to her left when leaving Mrs. Ogden’s pretty bedroom the night before? Debating the point in her own mind, however, did not settle the question, and Ethel, finding a bedroom door ajar on her right, laid her hand on the knob.

“Caught entering ‘Blue Beard’s chamber,’” said a soft languid voice just back of her, and wheeling about Ethel confronted her cousin. “Fie! Fie! Ethel.”

“I plead guilty only to searching for you.” Ethel’s gay laugh was infectious. “Tell me, is ‘Blue Beard’s chamber’ where Cousin Walter abides?”

“Mercy, no.” Mrs. Ogden tucked her hand inside Ethel’s. “‘Blue Beard’s Chamber’ is the raison d’être of our being here. On account of it Walter was offered the house at a ridiculously low rental—one hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

“One hundred and fifty for this!” Ethel’s voice was raised in a crescendo of astonishment, and her eyes swept the well proportioned hallway and the vista of spacious rooms opening from it, and the handsome stairway down which they were passing. “Is there a ‘harnt,’ as the darkies say, in ‘Blue Beard’s Chamber,’ or is the house considered unlucky that the owners give it away?”

“Neither—a much less romantic reason. The owner, what is his name? Never mind, Walter attends to all that”—with placid disregard of details. “The owner is a divorcé who, owing to some technicality of the decree, must keep his legal residence in Washington; so he leases this house for a song, with the proviso that he is permitted to keep a bedroom containing his personal belongings and occupy it occasionally.”

“But, Cousin Jane, how unpleasant!” ejaculated Ethel. “Suppose he elects to spend the winter with you?”

“Well, at that, my dear, we’d be saving money.” Mrs. Ogden straightened a rug on the handsome hardwood floor. “It’s a wonderful house for the money, and you know nothing pleases Walter so much as to save.”

Mrs. Ogden’s frank discussion of family traits and failings was apt to prove disconcerting and Ethel colored with embarrassment.

“I think it is perfectly dear of you to take me in this winter,” she began, but Mrs. Ogden cut her short.

“Don’t look at it in that light, my dear,” she said with kindly intent. “Both Walter and I are devoted to you, and I am looking forward to your companionship this winter. Walter is so immersed in business, and he never will assist me in my social duties.”

“Late again, Jane,” announced a querulous voice as they entered the dining room, and Walter Ogden looked up from behind the folds of a morning paper. “I hope, Ethel, you will teach Jane punctuality.”

“I’m more apt to prove a culprit in that regard than a teacher,” declared Ethel. “I’m seldom on time in the early morning.”

“Too many late hours,” grumbled Ogden, rising heavily to pull out a chair for his wife.

“Did you enjoy the dance last night, Ethel?” asked Mrs. Ogden, rattling the coffee cups with unnecessary vigor in the hope of diverting Ethel’s attention from Ogden’s early breakfast grumpiness.

“Very much!” Ethel took a large helping of cereal offered her by the attentive butler. “But it was a later affair than I anticipated, and on the way home Jim Patterson’s car had a blow-out.”

“Oh, did Mr. Patterson bring you back?”

“Yes, and the Marshalls as well.” Ethel smiled demurely. Mrs. Ogden’s interest in James Patterson, United States representative from California, was transparent.

“I can’t think why you don’t marry Jim Patterson, Ethel; he’s asked you often enough,” remarked Mrs. Ogden, taking in her cousin’s fresh young beauty with an appraising glance. “And then you would be able to give up your tiresome teaching.”

“But my teaching is not tiresome,” protested Ethel, flushing hotly. “You try giving lessons in conversational English to some of the diplomats and you will soon find how amusing it is.”

“I hope for the foreigner’s sake, Ethel, you don’t use old-fashioned phrase books,” broke in Ogden. “I recall that some years ago the wife of a diplomat brushed up her English, of which she spoke only a few words, before attending a large luncheon, and during a pause in the conversation, she remarked politely to her hostess: ‘I see the rat. The rat is under the chair,’ and consternation prevailed until the hostess and other guests grasped the situation.”

“My pupils have no opportunity to quote from primers,” laughed Ethel. “I never use them. We talk, read, and compose, and I have them write letters to me. Oh!” she paused and took a letter from her bag. “This came last night from Maru Takasaki. I asked him to write me his impressions of the Diplomatic Reception at the White House. Do listen, he is my prize pupil,” and she read the note aloud.

My dear Miss Ogden:

I have honor to inform you a news which you have been so anxious to hear.

Last evening we went duly to the White House where we were received by Mr. President, assisted by the ladies of the Cabinet as usual.

All the rooms were lighted brilliantly, and the Marine musical band made the scenery more vivid and attractive. The strange costumes of the different countries, mixed with the plain dress of this country, at once reflect the peculiarities of these nations.

Doubtless it was the grandest reception that has ever happened in this city. But all these things are not the object of my information; the only thing which I intend to inform you is that there was a punch, to your astonishment, and thus to the satisfaction of all the hosts. Indeed, the iced Californian claret was the only drinkable matter, besides several kinds of cold meats and dessert.

I cannot keep this event in myself for so many days, seeing that you have been so anxious to know. Details I will reserve till the Monday evening when I shall meet you.

Yours sincerely,

Maru Takasaki.

“Maru Takasaki,” repeated Ogden. “Is he the new attaché of the Japanese Embassy?”

“Yes; and he is so pleased with his progress in English that he wishes me to give lessons to his wife, who has just arrived from Japan. They have taken a house two blocks from here and have just moved in.”

“I predict you will shortly have more pupils than you can handle,” and Mrs. Ogden smiled at Ethel’s enthusiasm. “But you must not be so busy that you cannot be nice to my cousin”—she stopped speaking as the butler approached her husband and commenced whispering in his ear. “What is it, Walter?”

“You say he’s here?” asked Ogden, paying no attention to his wife’s question.

“Yes, sor,” and Charles, the butler, laid a visiting card in front of Ogden. “At the door, sor.”

“Good Lord!” Ogden dropped his napkin and gazed blankly across at his wife. “He’s come——”

“He—who? Not——” Eager welcome in her eyes.

“No one you know,” responded Ogden. “The owner of this house—Professor Richard Norcross—has come to occupy ‘Blue Beard’s Chamber.’”

“Well!” Mrs. Ogden blinked in astonishment. “What a mercy I put on my most becoming morning gown. Ask him in to breakfast, Walter,” and, as her husband left the room, she added hastily, “Don’t desert me, Ethel.”

“I really ought to be at Mrs. Henderson’s in twenty minutes, Cousin Jane,” expostulated Ethel, but she lingered a moment longer to fold her napkin, and the next second Ogden had entered, followed by Professor Norcross.

“It is very kind of you not to look upon my arrival as an intrusion,” said the professor, after greeting Mrs. Ogden and Ethel. “I sent word to my agent to notify you, Mrs. Ogden, that the law required that I make a brief visit to Washington.”

“We shall try and make your stay pleasant,” answered Mrs. Ogden cordially. She was agreeably impressed with the professor’s scholarly appearance. “Charles, bring some hot coffee. Oh, don’t go, Ethel,” as the latter moved toward the door.

“I really must, Cousin Jane, I’ll be back in time for luncheon,” and nodding a smiling farewell to the men, Ethel whisked out of the dining room.

Fifteen minutes later Ethel opened the front door of the house with more than her accustomed impetuosity and ran into the arms of a distinguished looking stranger.

“I beg your pardon,” gasped Ethel, straightening her hat which had tilted at a rakish angle on encountering the stranger’s forehead. “The butler will be here in an instant; oh, here he is now——” and Ethel dashed down the steps.

“Do you wish to see Mr. Ogden?” inquired Charles, but his question passed unheard, as Julian Barclay gazed after Ethel;—he had found the girl of the miniature.

CHAPTER VI
AT THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

Midnight was fast approaching, but the reception at the Japanese Embassy showed no signs of diminished attendance or lack of enjoyment among the guests. Diplomatic and official Washington was present to do honor to the Mikado’s birthday.

Mr. and Mrs. Walter Ogden and their guests were among the late arrivals, and Ethel Ogden received a warm welcome from Maru Takasaki, who hastened to greet her, and, with an air of great pride, presented her to his wife. Madame Takasaki’s pretty face broke into a friendly smile and she shook Ethel’s hand with marked cordiality.

“You so nice to Mr. Takasaki,” she lisped, with a delicious accent. “He tell me of long white lady who teaches him.”

Ethel cast a startled look at a wall mirror which reflected back her blond beauty, and the Japanese’s description of a “tall blonde” brought a smile to her lips and her eyes danced.

“And how do you like America, O Takasaki-San?” she asked.

“So much,” Madame Takasaki raised her hands as if measuring her meaning. “American people so nice,” she smiled and nodded at her questioner. “But it so strange they have so large noses, the noses give me terror.” Ethel, following Madame Takasaki’s glance, laughed outright; truly her compatriots’ noses did appear large when compared to the small features of the Japanese. The arrival of Maru Takasaki, who had left them a few minutes before, with another Japanese prevented her reply, and she was introduced to Mr. Saito who, Madame Takasaki explained, had arrived only that morning.

“You speak Japanese, Mees Ogden?” inquired Saito.

Ethel recalled a phrase she had picked up in looking over a Japanese-Italian phrase book, meaning, “Not yet,” and in a spirit of mischief, she responded, “Mada-mada,” then dimly wondered at the alteration in her companion’s manner. But Julian Barclay’s abrupt arrival gave her no time to question Saito.

“Won’t you go into supper with me, Miss Ogden?” demanded Barclay eagerly.

“Thanks, but I cannot,” Ethel’s eyes sparkled at the disappointment which Barclay made no attempt to hide. “But perhaps——”

“Yes?” eagerly, as she stopped tantalizingly.

“I see there is dancing in the ballroom, and after supper——”

“You’ll dance with me?” eager anticipation in his voice.

“If you are good.” Ethel turned to include Mr. Saito in their conversation, but he had moved over to the ambassador’s side and was talking eagerly to him and Maru Takasaki. They turned simultaneously and looked at Ethel and she was surprised by the concentration of their gaze. Angered by their staring, she turned abruptly to Barclay. “I promised to go out to supper with Professor Norcross. Have you seen him?”

“Not since we reached here,” moodily. “He monopolized you shamefully all this evening. Can’t think what you see in the old fogy.”