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Page 83
For perhaps a space of two hours, Paul Harley sat smoking and
contemplating the situation from every conceivable angle. It was
certainly desperate enough, and after a time he rose with a weary
sigh, and made a second and more detailed examination of the
several apartments.
It availed him nothing, but one point he definitely established.
Escape was impossible, failing outside assistance. A certain
coldness in the atmosphere, which was perceptible immediately
beneath the barred window, led him to believe that this
communicated with the outer air.
He was disposed to think that his unconsciousness had lasted less
than an hour, and that it was still dark without. He was full of
distrust. He no longer believed his immediate death to have been
decided upon. For some reason it would seem that the group wished
him to live, at any rate, temporarily. But now a complete theory
touching the death of Sir Charles Abingdon had presented itself
to his mind. Knowing little, but suspecting much of the resources
of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured to avoid contact with anything in
the place.
Night attire was provided in the sleeping chamber, but he did not
avail himself of this hospitality. Absolute silence reigned about
him. Yet so immutable are Nature's laws, that presently Paul
Harley sank back upon the mattresses, and fell asleep.
He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested. He found a shaft
of light streaming into the room, and casting shadows of the iron
bars upon the opposite wall. The brass lantern still burned above
him, and the silence remained complete as when he had fallen
asleep. He stood up yawning and stretching himself.
At least, it was good to be still alive. He was vaguely conscious
of the fact that he had been dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and
suppressing a sigh, he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the
little bathroom. There proved to be a plentiful supply of hot and
cold water. At this he sniffed suspiciously, but at last:
"I'll risk it," he muttered.
He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot bath, concluding
with a cold plunge. A razor and excellent toilet requisites were
set upon the dressing table, and whilst his imagination whispered
that the soap might be poisoned and the razor possess a septic
blade, he shaved, and having shaved, lighted his pipe and
redressed himself at leisure.
He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight sound in the
outer room arrested his attention. He turned sharply, stepping
through the doorway.
A low carved table, the only one which the apartment boasted,
displayed an excellent English breakfast laid upon a spotless
cover.
"Ah," he murmured, and by the sight was mentally translated to
that celebrated apartment of the palace at Versailles, where
Louis XIV and his notorious favourite once were accustomed to
dine, alone, and unsuitably dressed, the courses being served in
just this fashion.
Harley held his pipe in his hand, and contemplated the repast. It
was only logical to suppose it to be innocuous, and a keen
appetite hastened the issue. He sidetracked his suspicion, and
made an excellent breakfast. So the first day of his captivity
began.
Growing used to the stillness about him, he presently began to
detect, as the hours wore on, distant familiar sounds.
Automobiles on the highroad, trains leaving and entering a tunnel
which he judged to be from two to three miles distant; even human
voices at long intervals.
The noises of an English countryside crept through the barred
windows. Beyond a doubt he was in the house known as Hillside.
Probably at night the lights of London could be seen from the
garden. He was within ordinary telephone call of Chancery Lane.
Yet he resumed his pipe and smiled philosophically. He had hoped
to see the table disappear beneath the floor. As evidence that he
was constantly watched, this had occurred during a brief visit
which he had made to the bedroom in quest of matches.
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