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Page 41
CHAPTER XI. THE PURPLE STAIN
For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of
the routine duties which should have claimed his attention. His
face was set and grim, and his expression one of total
abstraction. In spirit he stood again in that superheated room at
the Savoy. Sometimes, as he mused, he would smoke with
unconscious vigour, surrounding himself with veritable fog banks.
An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reached him, to
conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of Ormuz
Khan.
He was savagely aware of a great mental disorderliness. He
recognized that his brain remained a mere whirlpool from which
Phyllis Abingdon, the deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and
another, alternately arose to claim supremacy. He clenched his
teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.
But after some time, although rebelliously, his thoughts began to
marshal themselves in a certain definite formation. And
outstanding, alone, removed from the ordinary, almost from the
real, was the bizarre personality of Ormuz Khan.
The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supplied by
Inspector Wessex, had led him to expect quite a different type of
character. Inured as Paul Harley was to surprise, his first
sentiment as he had set eyes upon the man had been one of sheer
amazement.
"Something of a dandy," inadequately described the repellent
sensuousness of this veritable potentate, who could contrive to
invest a sitting room in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a
secret Eastern household. To consider Ormuz Khan in connection
with matters of international finance was wildly incongruous,
while the manicurist incident indicated an inherent cruelty only
possible in one of Oriental race.
In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul Harley found himself
looking again into those black, inscrutable eyes and trying to
analyze the elusive quality of their regard. They were unlike any
eyes that he had met with. It were folly to count their possessor
a negligible quantity. Nevertheless, it was difficult, because of
the fellow's scented effeminacy, to believe that women could find
him attractive. But Harley, wise in worldly lore, perceived that
the mystery surrounding Ormuz Khan must make a strong appeal to a
certain type of female mind. He was forced to admit that some
women, indeed many, would be as clay in the hands of the man who
possessed those long-lashed, magnetic eyes.
He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in
her white face, and pain; but no anger. Yes, Ormuz Khan was
dangerous.
In what respect was he dangerous?
"Phil Abingdon!" Harley whispered, and, in the act of breathing
the name, laughed at his own folly.
In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest
her in a man of Ormuz Khan's type? He was prepared to learn that
there was a mystic side to her personality--a phase in her
character which would be responsive to the outre and romantic.
But he was loath to admit that she could have any place in her
affections for the scented devotee of hyacinths.
Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point.
He suppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room.
To and fro he walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently
his expression underwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since
gone out, but he had failed to observe the fact. His eyes had
grown unusually bright--and suddenly he stepped to the table and
stooping made a note upon the little writing block.
He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came
in. "Innes," he said, rapidly, "is there anything of really
first-rate importance with which I should deal personally?"
"Well," replied the secretary, glancing at some papers which he
carried, "there is nothing that could not wait until to-morrow at
a pinch."
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