other human voice.
It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.
'Your Excellency almost frightens me,' she whispered. 'Yet I do not doubt that you speak of what you know.'
'It is so,' he returned, gravely. 'At any hour, day or night, if you care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But,' he lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, 'the real object of my visit is concerned with more material things.'
'Indeed,' said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormuz Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul Harley.
'I bring you a message,' he continued, 'from a friend.'
With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him.
'From,' she began—but her lips would not frame the name.
'From Mr. Paul Harley,' he said, inclining his head gravely.
'Oh! tell me, tell me!'
'I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his absence may have distressed you.'
'Yes, yes,' she said, eagerly.
'But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has found it necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out of London for a while.'
'Oh,' Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. 'Oh, Your Excellency, how glad I am to hear that he is safe!'
The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting that the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and noting also the expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of her sweet lips.
'He is my guest,' continued Ormuz Khan, 'my honoured guest.'
'He is with you?' exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.
'With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he found a natural ally, since my concern was as great as his own. I do not conceal from you, Miss Abingdon, that he is danger.'
'In danger?' she whispered.
'It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There is a matter of vital urgency, however, in which you can assist him.'
'I?' she exclaimed.
'No one but you.' Ormuz Khan raised his slender hand gracefully. 'I beg you, do not misunderstand me. In the first place, would Mr. Harley have asked you to visit him at my home, if he had not been well assured that you could do so with propriety? In the second place, should I, who respect you more deeply than any woman in the world, consent to your coming unchaperoned? Miss Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you in Mr. Harley's name and in my own, prevail upon Mrs. McMurdoch to accept the invitation which I bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surrey home.'
He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier addressing his queen. His low musical voice held a note that was almost a note of adoration. Phil Abingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome ivory face, and strove for mental composure before replying.
Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell upon her. Of this she was well aware. In other words, her thoughts were not entirely her own, but in a measure were promptings from that powerful will.
Indeed, her heart was beating wildly at the mere thought that she was to see Paul Harley again that very day. She had counted the hours since their last meeting, and knew exactly how many had elapsed. Because each one had seemed like twelve, she had ceased to rebel against this sweet weakness, which, for the first time in her life, had robbed her of some of her individuality, and had taught her that she was a woman to whom mastery by man is exquisite slavery. Suddenly she spoke.
'Of course I will come, Your Excellency,' she said. 'I will see Mrs. McMurdoch at once, but I know she will not refuse.'
'Naturally she will not refuse, Miss Abingdon,' he returned in a grave voice. 'The happiness of so many people is involved.'
'It is so good of you,' she said, standing up. 'I shall never forget your kindness.'
He rose, bowing deeply, from a European standpoint too deeply.
'Kindness is a spiritual investment,' he said, 'which returns us interest tenfold. If I can be sure of Mrs. McMurdoch's acceptance, I will request permission to take my leave now, for I have an urgent business appointment to keep, after which I will call for you. Can you be ready by noon?'
'Yes, we shall be ready.'
Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner. The image of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent. Her mind was in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand of Ormuz Khan touched her own, she repressed a start and laughed in an embarrassed way.
She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay something cold, and when Ormuz Khan had bowed himself from the room, she found herself thinking, not of the newly departed visitor, nor even of Paul Harley, but of her dead father. In spite of the sunshine which flooded the room, her flesh turned cold and she wondered if the uncanny Persian possessed some strange power.
Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear the beloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she knew this; but it was uncannily real.
She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:
'Phil… . Phil… .'
Chapter 24 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,
