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Page 30
CHAPTER VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
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.
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