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Page 80
She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:
"Phil.... Phil...."
CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD
Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him.
At first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming.
He lay upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been
transported to India.
Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that
he had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some
similar weapon while telephoning from the station master's office
at Lower Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment
he was unable to judge, for his watch had been removed from his
pocket. He stared about him with a sort of fearful interest. He
lay in a small barely furnished room having white distempered
walls, wholly undecorated. Its few appointments were Oriental,
and the only window which it boasted was set so high as to be
well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and at the
moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate
with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable
to tell.
There were two doors in the room, one of very massive
construction, and the other a smaller one. The place was dimly
lighted by a brass lantern which hung from the ceiling. Harley
stood up, staggered slightly, and then sat down again.
"My God," he groaned and raised his hand to his head.
For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea.
Then, clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time
succeeded in reaching the heavy door.
As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was
sufficient to show him that his unaided effort could never force
it. He turned his attention to the smaller door, which opened at
his touch, revealing a sleeping apartment not unlike a monk's
cell, adjoining which was a tiny bathroom. Neither rooms boasted
windows, both being lighted by brass lanterns.
Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care,
and then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which,
and quite the most remarkable, he had reserved for special
investigation.
This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which
occupied nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the
screen hung a violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so
closely woven was the metal design that although he could touch
this curtain with his finger at certain points, it proved
impossible for him to move it aside in any way.
He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch the door. By
stooping down, he could see a few feet into some room beyond. It
was in darkness, however, and beyond the fact that it was
carpeted with a rich Persian rug, he learned but little from his
scrutiny. The gilded screen was solid and immovable.
Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pockets for pipe and
pouch, wondering if these, too, had been taken from him. They had
not, however, and the first nausea of his awakening having
passed, he filled and lighted his briar and dropped down upon the
divan to consider his position.
That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was unable to hide
from himself, but at least he was still alive, which was a matter
at once for congratulation and surprise.
He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his head, that his
forehead felt cold and wet, and now, considering the matter
closely, he came to the conclusion that an attempt had been made
to aid his recovery, by some person or persons who must have
retired at the moment that he had shown signs of returning
consciousness.
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