How persistently the voice of Phil Abingdon rang in his ears! He could not forget her lightest words. How hopelessly her bewitching image intruded itself between his reasoning mind and the problem upon which he sought to concentrate.
Miss Smith, the typist, had gone, for it was after six o'clock, and Innes alone was on duty. He came in as Harley, placing his hat and cane upon the big writing table, sat down to study the report.
"Inspector Wessex rang up, Mr. Harley, about an hour ago. He said he would be at the Yard until six.
"Has he obtained any information?" asked Paul Harley, wearily, glancing at his little table clock.
"He said he had had insufficient time to do much in the matter, but that there were one or two outstanding facts which might interest you."
"Did he seem to be surprised?"
"He did," confessed Innes. "He said that Ormûz Khân was a well-known figure in financial circles, and asked me in what way you were interested in him."
"Ah!" murmured Harley. He took up the telephone. "City 400," he said. . . . "Is that the Commissioner's Office, New Scotland Yard? . . .} Paul Harley speaking. Would you please inquire if Detective Inspector Wessex has gone?"
While awaiting a reply he looked up at Innes. "Is there anything else?" he asked.
