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Page 12
In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration. The terror which
had come into Sir Charles's life, the invisible menace which,
swordlike, hung over him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to
the land of temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the
secret land which has bred so many mysteries. Yes, he must look
into the past, into the Indian life of Sir Charles Abingdon, for
the birth of this thing which now had grown into a shadow almost
tangible.
Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced and very
surly-looking maid, in whom Harley thought he recognized the
housekeeper's bete noire.
When presently both servants had temporarily retired. "You see,
Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, glancing about his own room in a
manner almost furtive, "I realized to-day at your office that the
history of this dread which has come upon me perhaps went back so
far that it was almost impossible to acquaint you with it under
the circumstances."
"I quite understand."
"I think perhaps I should inform you in the first place that I
have a daughter. Her mother has been dead for many years, and
perhaps I have not given her the attention which a motherless
girl is entitled to expect from her father. I don't mean," he
said, hastily, "that we are in any sense out of sympathy, but
latterly in some way I must confess that we have got a little out
of touch." He glanced anxiously at his guest, indeed almost
apologetically. "You will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that
this seeming preamble may prove to have a direct bearing upon
what I propose to tell you?"
"Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles," said Harley
with sympathy. "I am all attention, and I shall only interrupt
you in the event of any point not being quite clear."
"Thank you," said Sir Charles. "I find it so much easier to
explain the matter now. To continue, there is a certain
distinguished Oriental gentleman--"
He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup plates.
"It is always delightful to chat with one who knows India so well
as you do," he continued, glancing significantly at his guest.
Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of this abrupt
change in the conversation, nodded in agreement. "The call of the
East," he replied, "is a very real thing. Only one who has heard
it can understand and appreciate all it means."
The butler, an excellently trained servant, went about his work
with quiet efficiency, and once Harley heard him mutter rapid
instructions to the surly parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully
in the background. When again host and guest found themselves
alone: "I don't in any way distrust the servants," explained Sir
Charles, "but one cannot hope to prevent gossip." He raised his
serviette to his lips and almost immediately resumed: "I was
about to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter's--"
He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily pouring out a
glass of water, he drank a sip or two and Paul Harley noticed
that his hand was shaking nervously. He thought of the photograph
in the library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished
Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possible drift of
the conversation.
This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently experienced
such difficulty in coming. It was something which concerned his
daughter; and, mentally visualizing the pure oval face and
taunting eyes of the library photograph, Harley found it
impossible to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles
could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis Abingdon.
Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must be held
responsible for his present condition, then truly it was a
dreadful one. No longer able to conceal his concern, Harley stood
up. "If the story distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles," he
said, "I beg--"
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