Fire-Tongue by Sax Rohmer (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Sax Rohmer
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“Very,” replied Harley.
A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came from Doctor McMurdoch; and Harley divined with joy that when the ordeal of the next day was over Phil Abingdon would have to face cross-examination by the conscientious Scotsman respecting this stranger whose attentions, if Orientally extravagant, were instinct with such generous sympathy.
For some reason the heavy perfume of the hyacinths affected him unpleasantly. All his old doubts and suspicions found a new life, so that his share in the conversation which presently arose became confined to a few laconic answers to direct questions.
He was angry, and his anger was more than half directed against himself, because he knew that he had no shadow of right to question this girl about her friendships or even to advise her. He determined, however, even at the cost of incurring a rebuke, to urge Doctor McMurdoch to employ all the influence he possessed to terminate an acquaintanceship which could not be otherwise than undesirable, if it was not actually dangerous.
When, presently, the party returned to the neighbouring house of the physician, however, Harley’s plans in this respect were destroyed by the action of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition tact was not a predominant factor. Almost before they were seated in the doctor’s drawing room he voiced his disapproval. “Phil,” he said, ignoring a silent appeal from his wife, “this is, mayhap, no time to speak of the matter, but I’m not glad to see the hyacinths.”
Phil Abingdon’s chin quivered rebelliously, and, to Harley’s dismay, it was upon him that she fixed her gaze in replying. “Perhaps you also disapprove of his excellency’s kindness?” she said, indignantly.
Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for words. She was perfectly well aware that he disapproved, and now was taking a cruel pleasure in reminding him of the fact that he was not entitled to do so. Had he been capable of that calm analysis to which ordinarily he submitted all psychological problems, he must have found matter for rejoicing in this desire of the girl’s to hurt him. “I am afraid, Miss Abingdon,” he replied, quietly, “that the matter is not one in which I am entitled to express my opinion.”
She continued to look at him challengingly, but:
“Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch, “but if you were, your opinion would be the same as mine.”
Mrs. McMurdoch’s glance became positively beseeching, but the physician ignored it. “As your father’s oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel called upon to remark that it isn’t usual for strangers to thrust their attentions upon a bereaved family.”
“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I understand that this is also your opinion, Mr. Harley?”
“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “it cannot fail to be.”
Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his wife. “I will speak of this later,” he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have spoken now.”
Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon’s cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to her side.
But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the motherly old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face. “I think you are all perfectly cruel and horrible,” she said in a choking voice, turned, and ran out.
A distant door banged.
“H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I’ve put my foot in it.”
His wife looked at him in speechless indignation and then followed Phil Abingdon from the room.
CHAPTER IX. TWO REPORTS
On returning to his office Paul Harley found awaiting him the report of the man to whom he had entrusted the study of the movements of Nicol Brinn. His mood was a disturbed one, and he had observed none of his customary precautions in coming from Doctor McMurdoch’s house. He wondered if the surveillance which he had once detected had ceased. Perhaps the chambers of Nicol Brinn were the true danger zone upon which these subtle but powerful forces now were focussed. On the other hand, he was quite well aware that his movements might have been watched almost uninterruptedly since the hour that Sir Charles Abingdon had visited his office.
During the previous day, in his attempt to learn the identity of Ormuz Khan, he had covered his tracks with his customary care. He had sufficient faith in his knowledge of disguise, which was extensive, to believe that those mysterious persons who were interested in his movements remained unaware of the fact that the simple-minded visitor from Vancouver who had spent several hours in and about the 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 reenacted 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.
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
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