“Hallo! Innes,” said Paul Harley as his secretary entered. “Someone is
making a devil of a row outside.”
“This is the offender, Mr. Harley,” said Innes, and handed my friend a
visiting card.
Glancing at the card, Harley read aloud:
“Major J. E. P. Ragstaff, Cavalry Club.”
Meanwhile a loud harsh voice, which would have been audible in a full
gale, was roaring in the lobby.
“Nonsense!” I could hear the Major shouting. “Balderdash! There's more
fuss than if I had asked for an interview with the Prime Minister.
Piffle! Balderdash!”
Innes's smile developed into a laugh, in which Harley joined, then:
“Admit the Major,” he said.
Into the study where Harley and I had been seated quietly smoking, there
presently strode a very choleric Anglo-Indian. He wore a horsy check
suit and white spats, and his tie closely resembled a stock. In his
hand he carried a heavy malacca cane, gloves, and one of those tall,
light-gray hats commonly termed white. He was below medium height, slim
and wiry; his gait and the shape of his legs, his build, all proclaimed
the dragoon. His complexion was purple, and the large white teeth
visible beneath a bristling gray moustache added to the natural ferocity
of his appearance. Standing just within the doorway:
“Mr. Paul Harley?” he shouted.
It was apparently an inquiry, but it sounded like a reprimand.
My friend, standing before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets and
his pipe in his mouth, nodded brusquely.
“I am Paul Harley,” he said. “Won't you sit down?”
Major Ragstaff, glancing angrily at Innes as the latter left the study,
tossed his stick and gloves on to a settee, and drawing up a chair
seated himself stiffly upon it as though he were in a saddle. He stared
straight at Harley, and:
“You are not the sort of person I expected, sir,” he declared. “May
I ask if it is your custom to keep clients dancin' on the mat and all
that--on the blasted mat, sir?”
Harley suppressed a smile, and I hastily reached for my cigarette-case
which I had placed upon the mantelshelf.
“I am always naturally pleased to see clients, Major Ragstaff,” said
Harley, “but a certain amount of routine is necessary even in civilian
life. You had not advised me of your visit, and it is contrary to my
custom to discuss business after five o'clock.”
As Harley spoke the Major glared at him continuously, and then:
“I've seen you in India!” he roared; “damme! I've seen you in
India!--and, yes! in Turkey! Ha! I've got you now sir!” He sprang to his
feet. “You're the Harley who was in Constantinople in 1912.”
“Quite true.”
“Then I've come to the wrong shop.”
“That remains to be seen, Major.”
“But I was told you were a private detective, and all that.”
“So I am,” said Harley quietly. “In 1912 the Foreign Office was my
client. I am now at the service of anyone who cares to employ me.”
“Hell!” said the Major.
He seemed to be temporarily stricken speechless by the discovery that
a man who had acted for the British Government should be capable of
stooping to the work of a private inquiry agent. Staring all about
the room with a sort of naive wonderment, he drew out a big silk
handkerchief and loudly blew his nose, all the time eyeing Harley
questioningly. Replacing his handkerchief he directed his regard upon
me, and:
“This is my friend, Mr. Knox,” said Harley; “you may state your case
before him without hesitation, unless------”