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Page 81
His salvation, then, was not accidental but deliberate. He
wondered what awaited him and why his life had been spared.
That he had walked blindly into a trap prepared for him by that
mysterious personality known as Fire-Tongue, he no longer could
doubt. Intense anxiety and an egotistical faith in his own acumen
had led him to underestimate the cleverness of his enemies, a
vice from which ordinarily he was free.
From what hour they had taken a leading interest in his
movements, he would probably never know, but that they had
detected Paul Harley beneath the vendor of "Old Moore's Almanac"
was certain enough. What a fool he had been!
He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary common sense should have
told him that the Hindu secretary had given those instructions to
the chauffeur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his, Paul
Harley's, special benefit. It was palpable enough now. He
wondered how he had ever fallen into such a trap, and biting
savagely upon his pipe, he strove to imagine what ordeal lay
ahead of him.
So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal danger, which he
knew to be great, to other matters, which he dreaded to consider,
because they meant far more to him than his own life. Upon these
bitter reflections a slight sound intruded, the first which had
disturbed the stillness about him since the moment of his
awakening.
Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded screen, and now a
faint light showed beneath the fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley
sat quite still, smoking and watching.
He had learned to face the inevitable with composure, and now,
apprehending the worst, he waited, puffing at his pipe. Presently
he detected the sound of someone crossing the room toward him, or
rather toward the screen. He lay back against the mattress which
formed the back of the divan, and watched the gap below the
curtain.
Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots. Their wearer
was evidently standing quite near the screen, possibly listening.
Harley had an idea that some second person stood immediately
behind the first. Of this idea he presently had confirmation. He
was gripping the stem of his pipe very tightly and any one who
could have seen him sitting there must have perceived that
although his face wore an unusual pallor, he was composed and
entirely master of himself.
A voice uttered his name:
"Mr. Paul Harley."
He could not be sure, but he thought it was the voice of Ormuz
Khan's secretary. He drew his pipe from between his teeth, and:
"Yes, what do you want with me?" he asked.
"Your attention, Mr. Harley, for a few moments, if you feel
sufficiently recovered."
"Pray proceed," said Harley.
Of the presence of a second person beyond the screen he was now
assured, for he had detected the sound of whispered instructions;
and sinking lower and lower upon the divan, he peered
surreptitiously under the border of the curtain, believing it to
be more than probable that his movements were watched.
This led to a notable discovery. A pair of gray suede shoes
became visible a few inches behind the glossy black
boots--curiously small shoes with unusually high heels. The
identity of their wearer was beyond dispute to the man who had
measured that delicate foot.
Ormuz Khan stood behind the screen!
CHAPTER XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR
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