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Page 11
He removed his gaze with reluctance from the fascinating picture,
and dropping into the big lounge chair, he lighted a cigarette.
He had just placed the match in an ash tray when he heard Sir
Charles's voice in the lobby, and a moment later Sir Charles
himself came hurrying into the library. His expression was so
peculiar that Harley started up immediately, perceiving that
something unusual had happened.
"My dear Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, "in the first place pray
accept my apologies--"
"None are necessary," Harley interrupted. "Your excellent
housekeeper has entertained me vastly."
"Good, good," muttered Sir Charles. "I am obliged to Mrs.
Howett," and it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were
elsewhere. "But I have to relate a most inexplicable
occurrence--inexplicable unless by some divine accident the plan
has been prevented from maturing."
"What do you mean, Sir Charles?"
"I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the
servant of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I
have been attending."
"So your butler informed me."
"My dear sir," cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes
grew almost wild, "no one in Wilson's house knew anything about
the matter!"
"What! It was a ruse?"
"Palpably a ruse to get me away from home."
Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match,
where, smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the
library. Whether because of his words or because of the presence
of the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again
touched Paul Harley. "You saw or heard nothing on your way across
the square to suggest that any one having designs on your safety
was watching you?"
"Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return
journey, of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless."
"I quite agree with you," said Paul Harley, quietly.
Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the
working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was
momentarily at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was
clamouring for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious
voice whispered: "This man is in danger; protect him." What was
the meaning of it all? He felt that a clue lay somewhere outside
the reach of his intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him
because of his impotence to grasp it.
Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way
which he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery
Lane. "In any event," said his host, "let us dine: for already I
have kept you waiting."
Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the
cosy dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his
glance had met that of Sir Charles--a premonition that this man's
days were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas, at
first, the atmosphere of Sir Charles Abingdon's home had been
laden with prosperous security, now from every side, and even
penetrating to the warmly lighted dining room, came that chilling
note of danger.
In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note that there were
many Indian curios in the place which could not well have failed
to attract the attention of a burglar. But that the person who
had penetrated to the house was no common burglar he was now
assured and he required no further evidence upon this point.
As he took his seat at the dining table he observed that Sir
Charles's collection had overflowed even into this room. In the
warm shadows about him were pictures and ornaments, all of which
came from, or had been inspired by, the Far East.
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