Fire-Tongue. Sax Rohmer
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are necessary,” Harley interrupted. “Your excellent housekeeper has entertained me vastly.”
“Good, good,” muttered Sir Charles. “I am obliged to Mrs. Howett,” and it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. “But I have to relate a most inexplicable occurrence—inexplicable unless by some divine accident the plan has been prevented from maturing.”
“What do you mean, Sir Charles?”
“I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the servant of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I have been attending.”
“So your butler informed me.”
“My dear sir,” cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes grew almost wild, “no one in Wilson’s house knew anything about the matter!”
“What! It was a ruse?”
“Palpably a ruse to get me away from home.”
Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match, where, smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the library. Whether because of his words or because of the presence of the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again touched Paul Harley. “You saw or heard nothing on your way across the square to suggest that any one having designs on your safety was watching you?”
“Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return journey, of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Paul Harley, quietly.
Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was momentarily at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was clamouring for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious voice whispered: “This man is in danger; protect him.” What was the meaning of it all? He felt that a clue lay somewhere outside the reach of his intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him because of his impotence to grasp it.
Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way which he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery Lane. “In any event,” said his host, “let us dine: for already I have kept you waiting.”
Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the cosy dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his glance had met that of Sir Charles—a premonition that this man’s days were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas, at first, the atmosphere of Sir Charles Abingdon’s home had been laden with prosperous security, now from every side, and even penetrating to the warmly lighted dining room, came that chilling note of danger.
In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note that there were many Indian curios in the place which could not well have failed to attract the attention of a burglar. But that the person who had penetrated to the house was no common burglar he was now assured and he required no further evidence upon this point.
As he took his seat at the dining table he observed that Sir Charles’s collection had overflowed even into this room. In the warm shadows about him were pictures and ornaments, all of which came from, or had been inspired by, the Far East.
In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration. The terror which had come into Sir Charles’s life, the invisible menace which, swordlike, hung over him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to the land of temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the secret land which has bred so many mysteries. Yes, he must look into the past, into the Indian life of Sir Charles Abingdon, for the birth of this thing which now had grown into a shadow almost tangible.
Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced and very surly-looking maid, in whom Harley thought he recognized the housekeeper’s bete noire.
When presently both servants had temporarily retired. “You see, Mr. Harley,” began Sir Charles, glancing about his own room in a manner almost furtive, “I realized to-day at your office that the history of this dread which has come upon me perhaps went back so far that it was almost impossible to acquaint you with it under the circumstances.”
“I quite understand.”
“I think perhaps I should inform you in the first place that I have a daughter. Her mother has been dead for many years, and perhaps I have not given her the attention which a motherless girl is entitled to expect from her father. I don’t mean,” he said, hastily, “that we are in any sense out of sympathy, but latterly in some way I must confess that we have got a little out of touch.” He glanced anxiously at his guest, indeed almost apologetically. “You will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that this seeming preamble may prove to have a direct bearing upon what I propose to tell you?”
“Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles,” said Harley with sympathy. “I am all attention, and I shall only interrupt you in the event of any point not being quite clear.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Charles. “I find it so much easier to explain the matter now. To continue, there is a certain distinguished Oriental gentleman—”
He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup plates.
“It is always delightful to chat with one who knows India so well as you do,” he continued, glancing significantly at his guest.
Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of this abrupt change in the conversation, nodded in agreement. “The call of the East,” he replied, “is a very real thing. Only one who has heard it can understand and appreciate all it means.”
The butler, an excellently trained servant, went about his work with quiet efficiency, and once Harley heard him mutter rapid instructions to the surly parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully in the background. When again host and guest found themselves alone: “I don’t in any way distrust the servants,” explained Sir Charles, “but one cannot hope to prevent gossip.” He raised his serviette to his lips and almost immediately resumed: “I was about to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter’s—”
He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily pouring out a glass of water, he drank a sip or two and Paul Harley noticed that his hand was shaking nervously. He thought of the photograph in the library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possible drift of the conversation.
This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently experienced such difficulty in coming. It was something which concerned his daughter; and, mentally visualizing the pure oval face and taunting eyes of the library photograph, Harley found it impossible to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis Abingdon.
Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must be held responsible for his present condition, then truly it was a dreadful one. No longer able to conceal his concern, Harley stood up. “If the story distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles,” he said, “I beg—”
Sir Charles waved his hand reassuringly. “A mere nothing. It will pass,” he whispered.
“But I fear,” continued Harley, “that—”
He ceased abruptly, and ran to his host’s assistance, for the latter, evidently enough, was in the throes of some sudden illness or seizure. His fresh-coloured face was growing positively livid, and he plucked at the edge of the table with twitching fingers. As Harley reached his side he made a sudden effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp the other’s shoulder.
“Benson!” cried Harley, loudly. “Quick! Your master is ill!”
There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown open.
“Too late,” whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to clutch his throat as Benson hurried into the room.
“My God!” whispered Harley. “He is dying!”
Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was almost