e 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