Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him. At
first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming. He lay
upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been transported to
India.
Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that he
had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some similar
weapon while telephoning from the station master’s office at Lower
Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment he was unable to
judge, for his watch had been removed from his pocket. He stared about
him with a sort of fearful interest. He lay in a small barely furnished
room having white distempered walls, wholly undecorated. Its few
appointments were Oriental, and the only window which it boasted was set
so high as to be well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and
at the moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate
with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable to
tell.
There were two doors in the room, one of very massive construction, and
the other a smaller one. The place was dimly lighted by a brass lantern
which hung from the ceiling. Harley stood up, staggered slightly, and
then sat down again.
“My God,” he groaned and raised his hand to his head.
For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea. Then,
clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time succeeded in
reaching the heavy door.
As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was sufficient
to show him that his unaided effort could never force it. He turned his
attention to the smaller door, which opened at his touch, revealing a
sleeping apartment not unlike a monk’s cell, adjoining which was a tiny
bathroom. Neither rooms boasted windows, both being lighted by brass
lanterns.
Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care, and
then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which, and quite
the most remarkable, he had reserved for special investigation.
This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which occupied
nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the screen hung a
violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so closely woven was the
metal design that although he could touch this curtain with his finger
at certain points, it proved impossible for him to move it aside in any
way.
He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch the door. By stooping
down, he could see a few feet into some room beyond. It was in darkness,
however, and beyond the fact that it was carpeted with a rich Persian
rug, he learned but little from his scrutiny. The gilded screen was
solid and immovable.
Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pockets for pipe and pouch,
wondering if these, too, had been taken from him. They had not, however,
and the first nausea of his awakening having passed, he filled and
lighted his briar and dropped down upon the divan to consider his
position.
That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was unable to hide from
himself, but at least he was still alive, which was a matter at once for
congratulation and surprise.
He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his head, that his
forehead felt cold and wet, and now, considering the matter closely,
he came to the conclusion that an attempt had been made to aid his
recovery, by some person or persons who must have retired at the moment
that he had shown signs of returning consciousness.
His salvation, then, was not accidental but deliberate. He wondered what
awaited him and why his life had been spared. That he had walked blindly
into a trap prepared for him by that mysterious personality known
as Fire-Tongue, he no longer could doubt. Intense anxiety and an
egotistical faith in his own acumen had led him to underestimate the
cleverness of his enemies, a vice from which ordinarily he was free.
From what hour they had taken a leading interest in his movements,
he would probably never know, but that they had detected Paul Harley
beneath the vendor of “Old Moore’s Almanac” was certain enough. What a
fool he had been!
He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary common sense should have
told him that the Hindu secretary had given those instructions to the
chauffeur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his, Paul Harley’s,
special benefit. It was palpable enough now. He wondered how he had ever
fallen into such a trap, and biting savagely upon his pipe, he strove to
imagine what ordeal lay ahead of him.
So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal danger, which he knew to
be great, to other matters, which he dreaded to consider, because they
meant far more to him than his own life. Upon these bitter reflections a
slight sound intruded, the first which had disturbed the stillness about
him since the moment of his awakening.
Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded screen, and now a faint
light showed beneath the fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley sat quite
still, smoking and watching.
He had learned to face the inevitable with composure, and now,
apprehending the worst, he waited, puffing at his pipe. Presently he
detected the sound of someone crossing the room toward him, or rather
toward the screen. He lay back against the mattress which formed the
back of the divan, and watched the gap below the curtain.
Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots. Their wearer was
evidently standing quite near the screen, possibly listening. Harley had
an idea that some second person stood immediately behind the first. Of
this idea he presently had confirmation. He was gripping the stem of his
pipe very tightly and any one who could have seen him sitting there must
have perceived that although his face wore an unusual pallor, he was
composed and entirely master of himself.
A voice uttered his name:
“Mr. Paul Harley.”
He could not be sure, but he thought it was the voice of Ormuz Khan’s
secretary. He drew his pipe from between his teeth, and:
“Yes, what do you want with me?” he asked.
“Your attention, Mr. Harley, for a few moments, if you feel sufficiently
recovered.”
“Pray proceed,” said Harley.
Of the presence of a second person beyond the screen he was now assured,
for he had detected the sound of whispered instructions; and sinking
lower and lower upon the divan, he peered surreptitiously under the
border of the curtain, believing it to be more than probable that his
movements were watched.
This led to a notable discovery. A pair of gray suede shoes became
visible a few inches behind the glossy black boots--curiously small
shoes with unusually high heels. The identity of their wearer was beyond
dispute to the man who had measured that delicate foot.
Ormuz Khan stood behind the screen!