Deep in reflection and oblivious of the busy London life around him,
Paul Harley walked slowly along the Strand. Outwardly he was still the
keen-eyed investigator who could pry more deeply into a mystery than
any other in England; but to-day his mood was introspective. He was in a
brown study.
The one figure which had power to recall him to the actual world
suddenly intruded itself upon his field of vision. From dreams which he
recognized in the moment of awakening to have been of Phil Abingdon, he
was suddenly aroused to the fact that Phil Abingdon herself was present.
Perhaps, half subconsciously, he had been looking for her.
Veiled and dressed in black, he saw her slim figure moving through the
throng. He conceived the idea that there was something furtive in her
movements. She seemed to be hurrying along as if desirous of avoiding
recognition. Every now and again she glanced back, evidently in search
of a cab, and a dormant suspicion which had lain in Harley’s mind now
became animate. Phil Abingdon was coming from the direction of the Savoy
Hotel. Was it possible that she had been to visit Ormuz Khan?
Harley crossed the Strand and paused just in front of the hurrying,
black-clad figure. “Miss Abingdon,” he said, “a sort of instinct told me
that I should meet you to-day.”
She stopped suddenly, and through the black veil which she wore he saw
her eyes grow larger--or such was the effect as she opened them widely.
Perhaps he misread their message. To him Phil Abingdon’s expression was
that of detected guilt. More than ever he was convinced of the truth of
his suspicions. “Perhaps you were looking for a cab?” he suggested.
Overcoming her surprise, or whatever emotion had claimed her at
the moment of this unexpected meeting, Phil Abingdon took Harley’s
outstretched hand and held it for a moment before replying. “I had
almost despaired of finding one,” she said, “and I am late already.”
“The porter at the Savoy would get you one.”
“I have tried there and got tired of waiting,” she answered quite
simply.
For a moment Harley’s suspicions were almost dispelled, and, observing
an empty cab approaching, he signalled to the man to pull up.
“Where do you want to go to?” he inquired, opening the door.
“I am due at Doctor McMurdoch’s,” she replied, stepping in.
Paul Harley hesitated, glancing from the speaker to the driver.
“I wonder if you have time to come with me,” said Phil Abingdon. “I know
the doctor wants to see you.”
“I will come with pleasure,” replied Harley, a statement which was no
more than true.
Accordingly he gave the necessary directions to the taxi man and seated
himself beside the girl in the cab.
“I am awfully glad of an opportunity of a chat with you, Mr. Harley,”
said Phil Abingdon. “The last few days have seemed like one long
nightmare to me.” She sighed pathetically. “Surely Doctor McMurdoch is
right, and all the horrible doubts which troubled us were idle ones,
after all?”
She turned to Harley, looking almost eagerly into his face. “Poor daddy
hadn’t an enemy in the world, I am sure,” she said. “His extraordinary
words to you no doubt have some simple explanation. Oh, it would be such
a relief to know that his end was a natural one. At least it would dull
the misery of it all a little bit.”
The appeal in her eyes was of a kind which Harley found much difficulty
in resisting. It would have been happiness to offer consolation to this
sorrowing girl. But, although he could not honestly assure her that
he had abandoned his theories, he realized that the horror of her
suspicions was having a dreadful effect upon Phil Abingdon’s mind.
“You may quite possibly be right,” he said, gently. “In any event, I
hope you will think as little as possible about the morbid side of this
unhappy business.”
“I try to,” she assured him, earnestly, “but you can imagine how hard
the task is. I know that you must have some good reason for your idea;
something, I mean, other than the mere words which have puzzled us all
so much. Won’t you tell me?”
Now, Paul Harley had determined, since the girl was unacquainted with
Nicol Brinn, to conceal from her all that he had learned from that
extraordinary man. In this determination he had been actuated, too, by
the promptings of the note of danger which, once seemingly attuned to
the movements of Sir Charles Abingdon, had, after the surgeon’s death,
apparently become centred upon himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded
the thought that the cloud might stretch out over the life of this girl
who sat beside him and whom he felt so urgently called upon to protect
from such a menace.
The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it emanate, and by whom had
it been called into being? He looked into the violet eyes, and as a
while before he had moved alone through the wilderness of London now he
seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon on the border of a spirit world
which had no existence for the multitudes around. Psychically, he
was very close to her at that moment; and when he replied he replied
evasively: “I have absolutely no scrap of evidence, Miss Abingdon,
pointing to foul play. The circumstances were peculiar, of course, but
I have every confidence in Doctor McMurdoch’s efficiency. Since he is
satisfied, it would be mere impertinence on my part to question his
verdict.”
Phil Abingdon repeated the weary sigh and turned her head aside,
glancing down to where with one small shoe she was restlessly tapping
the floor of the cab. They were both silent for some moments.
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked, suddenly. “Or don’t you think I am
clever enough to share your confidence?”
As she spoke she looked at him challengingly, and he felt all the force
of personality which underlay her outward lightness of manner.
“I both trust you and respect your intelligence,” he answered, quietly.
“If I withhold anything from you, I am prompted by a very different
motive from the one you suggest.”
“Then you are keeping something from me,” she said, softly. “I knew you
were.”
“Miss Abingdon,” replied Harley, “when the worst trials of this affair
are over, I want to have a long talk with you. Until then, won’t you
believe that I am acting for the best?”
But Phil Abingdon’s glance was unrelenting.
“In your opinion it may be so, but you won’t do me the honour of
consulting mine.”
Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but had hoped that she
would not adopt it. She possessed in a high degree the feminine art of
provoking a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the fact that she
had thus shifted the discussion from the abstract to the personal. He
smiled slightly, and Phil Abingdon’s expression relaxed in response and
she lowered her eyes quickly. “Why do you persistently treat me like a
child?” she said.
“I don’t know,” replied Harley, delighted but bewildered by her sudden
change of mood. “Perhaps because I want to.”
She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly out of the cab window;
and Harley did not break this silence, much as he would have liked to do
so. He was mentally reviewing his labours of the preceding day when, in
the character of a Colonial visitor with much time on his hands, he had
haunted the Savoy for hours in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Ormuz
Khan. His vigil had been fruitless, and on returning by a roundabout
route to his office he had bitterly charged himself with wasting
valuable time upon a side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat in his
study endeavouring to arrange his ideas in order, he had discovered many
points in his own defence.
If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated by
interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional motives,
it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a case.
But while he had personally undertaken the matter of his excellency
he had left the work of studying the activities of Nicol Brinn to an
assistant. He could not succeed in convincing himself that, on the
evidence available, the movements of the Oriental gentleman were more
important than those of the American.
“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.
She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the girl
into Doctor McMurdoch’s house. Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs.
McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to anticipate, was as plump
and merry and vivacious as her husband was lean, gloomy, and taciturn.
But she was a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved
girl showed. She took her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was
good to see.
“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when the formality of
presenting Harley was over. “Are you quite sure that you want to go?”
Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and Harley
could see that her eyes were full of tears. “I should like to see the
flowers,” she answered.
She was staying at the McMurdochs’ house, and as the object at present
in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which the funeral
of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley became
suddenly conscious of the fact that his presence was inopportune.
“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, turning to
the dour physician. “Shall I await your return or do you expect to be
detained?”
But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up beside
him and linked her arm in his.
“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded. “I want you to.”
As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the hall
of the late Sir Charles’s house. The gloved hand resting on his arm
trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon’s
face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp tightened as if to
reassure him.
It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the presence
of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as they
stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the late Sir
Charles--which overflowed from a neighbouring room into the lobby
and were even piled upon the library table--were conscious of any
strangeness in the situation.
The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had been
an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for,
conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an enormous device formed
of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed those of all the others.
Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared now
from behind the bank of flowers. Her grief could not rob her of that
Old World manner which was hers, and she saluted the visitors with a bow
which promised to develop into a curtsey. Noting the direction of Phil
Abingdon’s glance, which was set upon a card attached to the wreath of
hyacinths: “It was the first to arrive, Miss Phil,” she said. “Isn’t it
beautiful?”
“It’s wonderful,” said the girl, moving forward and drawing Harley along
with her. She glanced from the card up to his face, which was set in a
rather grim expression.
“Ormuz Khan has been so good,” she said. “He sent his secretary to see
if he could be of any assistance yesterday, but I certainly had not
expected this.”
Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he thought they were
tears of gratitude, Harley clenched his hand tightly so that the muscles
of his forearm became taut to Phil Abingdon’s touch. She looked up at
him, smiling pathetically: “Don’t you think it was awfully kind of him?”
she asked.
“Very,” replied Harley.
A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came from Doctor McMurdoch; and
Harley divined with joy that when the ordeal of the next day was over
Phil Abingdon would have to face cross-examination by the conscientious
Scotsman respecting this stranger whose attentions, if Orientally
extravagant, were instinct with such generous sympathy.
For some reason the heavy perfume of the hyacinths affected him
unpleasantly. All his old doubts and suspicions found a new life, so
that his share in the conversation which presently arose became confined
to a few laconic answers to direct questions.
He was angry, and his anger was more than half directed against himself,
because he knew that he had no shadow of right to question this girl
about her friendships or even to advise her. He determined, however,
even at the cost of incurring a rebuke, to urge Doctor McMurdoch to
employ all the influence he possessed to terminate an acquaintanceship
which could not be otherwise than undesirable, if it was not actually
dangerous.
When, presently, the party returned to the neighbouring house of the
physician, however, Harley’s plans in this respect were destroyed by
the action of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition tact was not a
predominant factor. Almost before they were seated in the doctor’s
drawing room he voiced his disapproval. “Phil,” he said, ignoring a
silent appeal from his wife, “this is, mayhap, no time to speak of the
matter, but I’m not glad to see the hyacinths.”
Phil Abingdon’s chin quivered rebelliously, and, to Harley’s dismay,
it was upon him that she fixed her gaze in replying. “Perhaps you also
disapprove of his excellency’s kindness?” she said, indignantly.
Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for words. She was perfectly
well aware that he disapproved, and now was taking a cruel pleasure in
reminding him of the fact that he was not entitled to do so. Had he
been capable of that calm analysis to which ordinarily he submitted all
psychological problems, he must have found matter for rejoicing in
this desire of the girl’s to hurt him. “I am afraid, Miss Abingdon,” he
replied, quietly, “that the matter is not one in which I am entitled to
express my opinion.”
She continued to look at him challengingly, but:
“Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch, “but if you were, your
opinion would be the same as mine.”
Mrs. McMurdoch’s glance became positively beseeching, but the physician
ignored it. “As your father’s oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel
called upon to remark that it isn’t usual for strangers to thrust their
attentions upon a bereaved family.”
“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I understand that this is
also your opinion, Mr. Harley?”
“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “it cannot
fail to be.”
Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his wife.
“I will speak of this later,” he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have
spoken now.”
Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon’s cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to her
side.
But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the motherly
old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and
weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face. “I think you are
all perfectly cruel and horrible,” she said in a choking voice, turned,
and ran out.
A distant door banged.
“H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I’ve put my foot in it.”
His wife looked at him in speechless indignation and then followed Phil
Abingdon from the room.