'Very good, sir,' said Benson—but his voice betokened bewilderment. 'I will see Mrs. Howett at once, sir.'
'Right. Good-bye.'
'Good-bye, sir.'
Replacing the receiver, Harley took a bunch of keys from his pocket and, crossing the office, locked the door. He then retired to his private apartments and also locked the communicating door. A few moments later he came out of 'The Chancery Agency' and proceeded in the direction of the Strand. Under cover of the wire-gauze curtain which veiled the window he had carefully inspected the scene before emerging. But although his eyes were keen and his sixth sense whispered 'Danger—danger!' he had failed to detect anything amiss.
This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence was beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun to play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly organized and efficient system of surveillance with which he had ever come in contact. Once, in the past, he had found himself pitted against the secret police of Moscow, and hitherto he had counted their methods incomparable. Unless he was the victim of an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian spies had their peers in London.
As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir Charles, Benson opened the door. 'We have just finished, sir,' he said, as Harley ran up the steps. 'But Mrs. Howett would like to see you, sir.'
'Very good, Benson,' replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to the butler. 'I will see her in the dining room, please.'
Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set at the head of the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
'Ah, Mrs. Howett,' said Harley; kindly, 'please try to forgive me for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?'
'No, Mr. Harley,' was the answer, 'that was what I was anxious to explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful night.'
'Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?'
'I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so.' The methodical old lady illustrated her words. 'I also had the dessert spoons changed. You remember, Benson?'
Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver spoons which he substituted for those already set upon the table.
'Anything else, Mrs. Howett?'
'The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid—a most incompetent, impudent girl—altering the position of the serviettes. At least, such was my impression.'
'Of the serviettes?' murmured Harley.
'She denied it,' continued the housekeeper, speaking with great animation; 'but she could give no explanation. It was the last straw. She took too many liberties altogether.'
As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but Harley was no longer listening.
'This is not the same table linen?' he asked, suddenly.
'Why, no, sir,' replied Benson. 'Last week's linen will be at the laundry.'
'It has not gone yet,' interrupted Mrs. Howett. 'I was making up the list when you brought me Mr. Harley's message.'
Paul Harley turned to her.
'May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that occasion, Mrs. Howett?' he said. 'My request must appear singular, I know, but I assure you it is no idle one.'
Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had conceived a sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away excitedly.
'Finally, Benson,' said Harley, 'what else did you bring into the room after Sir Charles and I had entered?'
'Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the soup plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I can't say which were the actual plates used.'
Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, and gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. 'Did the maid, Jones, handle any of these?' he asked.
'No, sir'—emphatically. 'She was preparing to bring the trout from the kitchen.'
'But I saw her in the room.'
'She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast racks, sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were never brought to the table.'
'H'm. Has Jones left?'
'Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howett packed her off right away. She left the very next day after poor Sir Charles died.'
'Where has she gone?'
'To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howett has the address.'
At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number of serviettes.
'This was the cloth,' she said, spreading it out, 'but which of the serviettes were used I cannot say.'
'Allow me to look,' replied Paul Harley.
One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in turn and examining it critically.
'What have we here!' he exclaimed, presently. 'Have blackberries been served within the week, Mrs. Howett?'
'We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles—God rest him—said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!' She turned to Benson. 'How is it I never noticed those stains, and what can have caused them?'
The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all over with dark purple spots.
Chapter 12 THE VEIL IS RAISED
Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed to the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph in a silver frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he induced a sort of auto- hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to smile at him sadly. Then a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant face. The soft outline changed, subtly; the lips grew more full, became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened and grew languorous. He found himself looking into the face of Ormuz Khan.
'Damn it!' he muttered, awakened from his trance.
He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unaccountable chill. It might have been caused by the mental picture which he had conjured up, or it might be another of those mysterious warnings of which latterly he had had so many without encountering any positive danger. He stood quite still, listening.
Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment, and often enough asked himself what he had expected to hear. It was from this room, on an earlier occasion, that he had heard the ominous movements in the apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.
'Benson,' he called, opening the library door. As the man came along the hall: 'I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my secretary,' he explained. 'There it is, on the table. When the district messenger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other receipt than that of Mr. Innes.'
'Very good, sir.'
Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.
'Good day, sir,' said the butler.
