Savoy, and Paul Harley of Chancery Lane, were one and the same.
His brain was far too alertly engaged with troubled thoughts of Phil Abingdon to be susceptible to the influence of those delicate etheric waves which he had come to recognize as the note of danger. Practically there had been no development whatever in the investigation, and he was almost tempted to believe that the whole thing was a mirage, when the sight of the typewritten report translated him mentally to the luxurious chambers in Piccadilly.
Again, almost clairvoyantly, he saw the stoical American seated before the empty fireplace, his foot restlessly tapping the fender. Again he heard the curious, high tones: "I'll tell you . . . . You have opened the gates of hell . . . ."
The whole scene, with its tantalizing undercurrent of mystery, was reënacted before his inner vision. He seemed to hear Nicol Brinn, startled from his reverie, exclaim: "I think it was an owl . . . . We sometimes get them over from the Green Park . . . ."
Why should so simple an incident have produced so singular an effect? For the face of the speaker had been ashen.
Then the pendulum swung inevitably back: "You are all perfectly cruel and horrible . . . ."
Paul Harley clenched his hands, frowning at the Burmese cabinet as though he hated it.
