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Page 43
This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence
was beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun
to play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly
organized and efficient system of surveillance with which he had
ever come in contact. Once, in the past, he had found himself
pitted against the secret police of Moscow, and hitherto he had
counted their methods incomparable. Unless he was the victim of
an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian spies had their peers
in London.
As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir
Charles, Benson opened the door. "We have just finished, sir," he
said, as Harley ran up the steps. "But Mrs. Howett would like to
see you, sir."
"Very good, Benson," replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to
the butler. "I will see her in the dining room, please."
Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room
which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid
for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he
remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir
Charles had died was set at the head of the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking
slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough
drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was
Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
"Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me
for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a
good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally
anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns,
will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set
exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to
dinner?"
"No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, "that was what I was anxious to
explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful
night."
"Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?"
"I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so." The
methodical old lady illustrated her words. "I also had the
dessert spoons changed. You remember, Benson?"
Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver
spoons which he substituted for those already set upon the table.
"Anything else, Mrs. Howett?"
"The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your
arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the
parlourmaid--a most incompetent, impudent girl--altering the
position of the serviettes. At least, such was my impression."
"Of the serviettes?" murmured Harley.
"She denied it," continued the housekeeper, speaking with great
animation; "but she could give no explanation. It was the last
straw. She took too many liberties altogether."
As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but
Harley was no longer listening.
"This is not the same table linen?" he asked, suddenly.
"Why, no, sir," replied Benson. "Last week's linen will be at the
laundry."
"It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett. "I was making up
the list when you brought me Mr. Harley's message."
Paul Harley turned to her.
"May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that
occasion, Mrs. Howett?" he said. "My request must appear
singular, I know, but I assure you it is no idle one."
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