Fire-Tongue by Sax Rohmer (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📕

death, apparently become centred upon himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded the thought that the cloud might stretch out over the life of this girl who sat beside him and whom he felt so urgently called upon to protect from such a menace.

The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it emanate, and by whom had it been called into being? He looked into the violet eyes, and as a while before he had moved alone through the wilderness of London now he seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon on the border of a spirit world which had no existence for the multitudes around. Psychically, he was very close to her at that moment; and when he replied he replied evasively: “I have absolutely no scrap of evidence, Miss Abingdon, pointing to foul play. The circumstances were peculiar, of course, but I have every confidence in Doctor McMurdoch’s efficiency. Since he is satisfied, it would be mere impertinence on my part to question his verdict.”

Phil Abingdon repeated the weary sigh and turned her head aside, glancing down to where with one small shoe she was restlessly tapping the floor of the cab. They were both silent for some moments.

“Don’t you trust me?” she asked, suddenly. “Or don’t you think I am clever enough to share your confidence?”

As she spoke she looked at him challengingly, and he felt all the force of personality which underlay her outward lightness of manner.

“I both trust you and respect your intelligence,” he answered, quietly. “If I withhold anything from you, I am prompted by a very different motive from the one you suggest.”

“Then you are keeping something from me,” she said, softly. “I knew you were.”

“Miss Abingdon,” replied Harley, “when the worst trials of this affair are over, I want to have a long talk with you. Until then, won’t you believe that I am acting for the best?”

But Phil Abingdon’s glance was unrelenting.

“In your opinion it may be so, but you won’t do me the honour of consulting mine.”

Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but had hoped that she would not adopt it. She possessed in a high degree the feminine art of provoking a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the fact that she had thus shifted the discussion from the abstract to the personal. He smiled slightly, and Phil Abingdon’s expression relaxed in response and she lowered her eyes quickly. “Why do you persistently treat me like a child?” she said.

“I don’t know,” replied Harley, delighted but bewildered by her sudden change of mood. “Perhaps because I want to.”

She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly out of the cab window; and Harley did not break this silence, much as he would have liked to do so. He was mentally reviewing his labours of the preceding day when, in the character of a Colonial visitor with much time on his hands, he had haunted the Savoy for hours in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Ormuz Khan. His vigil had been fruitless, and on returning by a roundabout route to his office he had bitterly charged himself with wasting valuable time upon a side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat in his study endeavouring to arrange his ideas in order, he had discovered many points in his own defence.

If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated by interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional motives, it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a case. But while he had personally undertaken the matter of his excellency he had left the work of studying the activities of Nicol Brinn to an assistant. He could not succeed in convincing himself that, on the evidence available, the movements of the Oriental gentleman were more important than those of the American.

“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.

She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the girl into Doctor McMurdoch’s house. Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs. McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to anticipate, was as plump and merry and vivacious as her husband was lean, gloomy, and taciturn. But she was a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved girl showed. She took her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was good to see.

“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when the formality of presenting Harley was over. “Are you quite sure that you want to go?”

Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and Harley could see that her eyes were full of tears. “I should like to see the flowers,” she answered.

She was staying at the McMurdochs’ house, and as the object at present in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which the funeral of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley became suddenly conscious of the fact that his presence was inopportune.

“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, turning to the dour physician. “Shall I await your return or do you expect to be detained?”

But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up beside him and linked her arm in his.

“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded. “I want you to.”

As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the hall of the late Sir Charles’s house. The gloved hand resting on his arm trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon’s face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp tightened as if to reassure him.

It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the presence of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as they stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the late Sir Charles—which overflowed from a neighbouring room into the lobby and were even piled upon the library table—were conscious of any strangeness in the situation.

The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had been an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for, conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an enormous device formed of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed those of all the others.

Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared now from behind the bank of flowers. Her grief could not rob her of that Old World manner which was hers, and she saluted the visitors with a bow which promised to develop into a curtsey. Noting the direction of Phil Abingdon’s glance, which was set upon a card attached to the wreath of hyacinths: “It was the first to arrive, Miss Phil,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s wonderful,” said the girl, moving forward and drawing Harley along with her. She glanced from the card up to his face, which was set in a rather grim expression.

“Ormuz Khan has been so good,” she said. “He sent his secretary to see if he could be of any assistance yesterday, but I certainly had not expected this.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he thought they were tears of gratitude, Harley clenched his hand tightly