On the following afternoon Paul Harley was restlessly pacing his private
office when Innes came in with a letter which had been delivered by
hand. Harley took it eagerly and tore open the envelope. A look of
expectancy faded from his eager face almost in the moment that it
appeared there. “No luck, Innes,” he said, gloomily. “Merton reports
that there is no trace of any dangerous foreign body in the liquids
analyzed.”
He dropped the analyst’s report into a wastebasket and resumed his
restless promenade. Innes, who could see that his principal wanted
to talk, waited. For it was Paul Harley’s custom, when the clue to a
labyrinth evaded him, to outline his difficulties to his confidential
secretary, and by the mere exercise of verbal construction Harley would
often detect the weak spot in his reasoning. This stage come to, he
would dictate a carefully worded statement of the case to date and thus
familiarize himself with its complexities.
“You see, Innes,” he began, suddenly, “Sir Charles had taken no
refreshment of any kind at Mr. Wilson’s house nor before leaving his
own. Neither had he smoked. No one had approached him. Therefore, if he
was poisoned, he was poisoned at his own table. Since he was never out
of my observation from the moment of entering the library up to that of
his death, we are reduced to the only two possible mediums--the soup or
the water. He had touched nothing else.”
“No wine?”
“Wine was on the table but none had been poured out. Let us see what
evidence, capable of being put into writing, exists to support my theory
that Sir Charles was poisoned. In the first place, he clearly went in
fear of some such death. It was because of this that he consulted me.
What was the origin of his fear? Something associated with the term
Fire-Tongue. So much is clear from Sir Charles’s dying words, and his
questioning Nicol Brinn on the point some weeks earlier.
“He was afraid, then, of something or someone linked in his mind with
the word Fire-Tongue. What do we know about Fire-Tongue? One thing only:
that it had to do with some episode which took place in India. This item
we owe to Nicol Brinn.
“Very well. Sir Charles believed himself to be in danger from some thing
or person unknown, associated with India and with the term Fire-Tongue.
What else? His house was entered during the night under circumstances
suggesting that burglary was not the object of the entrance. And next?
He was assaulted, with murderous intent. Thirdly, he believed himself to
be subjected to constant surveillance. Was this a delusion? It was
not. After failing several times I myself detected someone dogging my
movements last night at the moment I entered Nicol Brinn’s chambers.
Nicol Brinn also saw this person.
“In short, Sir Charles was, beyond doubt, at the time of his death,
receiving close attention from some mysterious person or persons
the object of which he believed to be his death. Have I gone beyond
established facts, Innes, thus far?”
“No, Mr. Harley. So far you are on solid ground.”
“Good. Leaving out of the question those points which we hope to clear
up when the evidence of Miss Abingdon becomes available--how did Sir
Charles learn that Nicol Brinn knew the meaning of Fire-Tongue?”
“He may have heard something to that effect in India.”
“If this were so he would scarcely have awaited a chance encounter to
prosecute his inquiries, since Nicol Brinn is a well-known figure in
London and Sir Charles had been home for several years.”
“Mr. Brinn may have said something after the accident and before he was
in full possession of his senses which gave Sir Charles a clue.”
“He did not, Innes. I called at the druggist’s establishment this
morning. They recalled the incident, of course. Mr. Brinn never uttered
a word until, opening his eyes, he said: ‘Hello! Am I much damaged?’”
Innes smiled discreetly. “A remarkable character, Mr. Harley,” he said.
“Your biggest difficulty at the moment is to fit Mr. Nicol Brinn into
the scheme.”
“He won’t fit at all, Innes! We come to the final and conclusive item of
evidence substantiating my theory of Sir Charles’s murder: Nicol Brinn
believes he was murdered. Nicol Brinn has known others, in his own
words, ‘to go the same way.’ Yet Nicol Brinn, a millionaire, a scholar,
a sportsman, and a gentleman, refuses to open his mouth.”
“He is afraid of something.”
“He is afraid of Fire-Tongue--whatever Fire-Tongue may be! I never saw a
man of proved courage more afraid in my life. He prefers to court arrest
for complicity in a murder rather than tell what he knows!”
“It’s unbelievable.”
“It would be, Innes, if Nicol Brinn’s fears were personal.”
Paul Harley checked his steps in front of the watchful secretary and
gazed keenly into his eyes.
“Death has no terrors for Nicol Brinn,” he said slowly. “All his life
he has toyed with danger. He admitted to me that during the past seven
years he had courted death. Isn’t it plain enough, Innes? If ever a man
possessed all that the world had to offer, Nicol Brinn is that man. In
such a case and in such circumstances what do we look for?”
Innes shook his head.
“We look for the woman!” snapped Paul Harley.
There came a rap at the door and Miss Smith, the typist, entered. “Miss
Phil Abingdon and Doctor McMurdoch,” she said.
“Good heavens!” muttered Harley. “So soon? Why, she can only just--” He
checked himself. “Show them in, Miss Smith,” he directed.
As the typist went out, followed by Innes, Paul Harley found himself
thinking of the photograph in Sir Charles Abingdon’s library and waiting
with an almost feverish expectancy for the appearance of the original.
Almost immediately Phil Abingdon came in, accompanied by the sepulchral
Doctor McMurdoch. And Harley found himself wondering whether her eyes
were really violet-coloured or whether intense emotion heroically
repressed had temporarily lent them that appearance.
Surprise was the predominant quality of his first impression. Sir
Charles Abingdon’s daughter was so exceedingly vital--petite and
slender, yet instinct with force. The seeming repose of the photograph
was misleading. That her glance could be naive he realized--as it could
also be gay--and now her eyes were sad with a sadness so deep as to
dispel the impression of lightness created by her dainty form, her
alluring, mobile lips, and the fascinating, wavy, red-brown hair.
She did not wear mourning. He recalled that there had been no time to
procure it. She was exquisitely and fashionably dressed, and even the
pallor of grief could not rob her cheeks of the bloom born of Devon
sunshine. He had expected her to be pretty. He was surprised to find her
lovely.
Doctor McMurdoch stood silent in the doorway, saying nothing by way
of introduction. But nothing was necessary. Phil Abingdon came forward
quite naturally--and quite naturally Paul Harley discovered her little
gloved hand to lie clasped between both his own. It was more like a
reunion than a first meeting and was so laden with perfect understanding
that, even yet, speech seemed scarcely worth while.
Thinking over that moment, in later days, Paul Harley remembered that
he had been prompted by some small inner voice to say: “So you have come
back?” It was recognition. Of the hundreds of men and women who came
into his life for a while, and ere long went out of it again, he knew,
by virtue of that sixth sense of his, that Phil Abingdon had come to
stay--whether for joy or sorrow he could not divine.
It was really quite brief--that interval of silence--although perhaps
long enough to bridge the ages.
“How brave of you, Miss Abingdon!” said Harley. “How wonderfully brave
of you!”
“She’s an Abingdon,” came the deep tones of Doctor McMurdoch. “She
arrived only two hours ago and here she is.”
“There can be no rest for me, Doctor,” said the girl, and strove
valiantly to control her voice, “until this dreadful doubt is removed.
Mr. Harley”--she turned to him appealingly--“please don’t study my
feelings in the least; I can bear anything--now; just tell me what
happened. Oh! I had to come. I felt that I had to come.”
As Paul Harley placed an armchair for his visitor, his glance met that
of Doctor McMurdoch, and in the gloomy eyes he read admiration of this
girl who could thus conquer the inherent weakness of her sex and at such
an hour and after a dreadful ordeal set her hand to the task which fate
had laid upon her.
Doctor McMurdoch sat down on a chair beside the door, setting his silk
hat upon the floor and clasping his massive chin with his hand.
“I will endeavour to do as you wish, Miss Abingdon,” said Harley,
glancing anxiously at the physician.
But Doctor McMurdoch returned only a dull stare. It was evident
that this man of stone was as clay in the hands of Phil Abingdon. He
deprecated the strain which she was imposing upon her nervous system,
already overwrought to the danger point, but he was helpless for all his
dour obstinacy. Harley, looking down at the girl’s profile, read a new
meaning into the firm line of her chin. He was conscious of an insane
desire to put his arms around this new acquaintance who seemed in some
indefinable yet definite way to belong to him and to whisper the tragic
story he had to tell, comforting her the while.
He began to relate what had taken place at the first interview, when Sir
Charles had told him of the menace which he had believed to hang over
his life. He spoke slowly, deliberately, choosing his words with a view
to sparing Phil Abingdon’s feelings as far as possible.
She made no comment throughout, but her fingers alternately tightened
and relaxed their hold upon the arms of the chair in which she was
seated. Once, at some reference to words spoken by her father, her
sensitive lips began to quiver and Harley, watching her, paused. She
held the chair arms more tightly. “Please go on, Mr. Harley,” she said.
The words were spoken in a very low voice, but the speaker looked up
bravely, and Harley, reassured, proceeded uninterruptedly to the end of
the story. Then:
“At some future time, Miss Abingdon,” he concluded, “I hope you will
allow me to call upon you. There is so much to be discussed--”
Again Phil Abingdon looked up into his face. “I have forced myself
to come to see you to-day,” she said, “because I realize there is no
service I can do poor dad so important as finding out--”
“I understand,” Harley interrupted, gently. “But--”
“No, no.” Phil Abingdon shook her head rebelliously. “Please ask me what
you want to know. I came for that.”
He met the glance of violet eyes, and understood something of Doctor
McMurdoch’s helplessness. He found his thoughts again wandering into
strange, wild byways and was only recalled to the realities by the
dry, gloomy voice of the physician. “Go on, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor
McMurdoch. “She has grand courage.”