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Page 55
"I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that
parcel of linen to the analyst."
"The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not
engaged upon any wild-goose chase."
"By heavens!" Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he
reached for his hat, "that gives me an idea!"
"The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the
letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley
evidently made his first call there! I'm off, sir! The trail
starts from that house!"
Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an expression of
despair upon his face, Detective Inspector Wessex set out. He
blamed himself for wasting time upon the obvious, for
concentrating too closely upon the clue given by Harley's last
words to Innes before leaving the office in Chancery Lane. It was
poor workmanship. He had hoped to take a short cut, and it had
proved, as usual, to be a long one. Now, as he sat in a laggard
cab feeling that every minute wasted might be a matter of life
and death, he suddenly became conscious of personal anxiety. He
was a courageous, indeed a fearless, man, and he was
subconsciously surprised to find himself repeating the words of
Nicol Brinn: "Be careful--be very careful!" With all the ardour
of the professional, he longed to find a clue which should lead
him to the heart of the mystery.
Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Harley's case to
date, and Detective Inspector Wessex, although he had not
admitted the fact, had nevertheless recognized that from start to
finish the thing did not offer one single line of inquiry which
he would have been capable of following up. That Paul Harley had
found material to work upon, had somehow picked up a definite
clue from this cloudy maze, earned the envious admiration of the
Scotland Yard man.
Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss Abingdon, and
was shown by the butler into a charmingly furnished little
sitting room which was deeply impressed with the personality of
its dainty owner. It was essentially and delightfully feminine.
Yet in the decorations and in the arrangement of the furniture
there was a note of independence which was almost a note of
defiance. Phyllis Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic figure in her
black dress, rose to greet the inspector.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss Abingdon," he said, kindly. "My visit
does not concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps
you might be able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley."
Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but
even before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort
of shock that he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil
Abingdon's eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite
still, twisting his card between her supple fingers.
"Mr. Harley!" she whispered.
"I did not want to alarm you," said the detective, guiltily,
"but--" He stopped, at a loss for words.
"Has something happened to him?"
"I am sorry if I have alarmed you," he assured her, "but there is
some doubt respecting Mr. Harley's present whereabouts. Have you
any idea where he went when he left this house yesterday?"
"Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well."
"Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in." Phil
Abingdon spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. "He went
to call upon Jones, our late parlourmaid."
"Late parlourmaid?" echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.
"Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance."
"Something to do with a parcel which he sent away from here to
the analyst?"
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