e
and death, he suddenly became conscious of personal anxiety. He was a
courageous, indeed a fearless, man, and he was subconsciously surprised
to find himself repeating the words of Nicol Brinn: "Be careful--be very
careful!" With all the ardour of the professional, he longed to find a
clue which should lead him to the heart of the mystery.

Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Harley's case to date, and
Detective Inspector Wessex, although he had not admitted the fact, had
nevertheless recognized that from start to finish the thing did not
offer one single line of inquiry which he would have been capable of
following up. That Paul Harley had found material to work upon, had
somehow picked up a definite clue from this cloudy maze, earned the
envious admiration of the Scotland Yard man.

Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss Abingdon, and was shown
by the butler into a charmingly furnished little sitting room which
was deeply impressed with the personality of its dainty owner. It was
essentially and delightfully feminine. Yet in the decorations and in the
arrangement of the furniture there was a note of independence which was
almost a note of defiance. Phyllis Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic
figure in her black dress, rose to greet the inspector.

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Abingdon," he said, kindly. "My visit does not
concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps you might be
able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley."

Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but even
before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort of shock that
he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil Abingdon's eyes seemed
to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite still, twisting his card
between her supple fingers.

"Mr. Harley!" she whispered.

"I did not want to alarm you," said the detective, guiltily, "but--" He
stopped, at a loss for words.

"Has something happened to him?"

"I am sorry if I have alarmed you," he assured her, "but there is some
doubt respecting Mr. Harley's present whereabouts. Have you any idea
where he went when he left this house yesterday?"

"Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well."

"Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in." Phil Abingdon
spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. "He went to call upon
Jones, our late parlourmaid."

"Late parlourmaid?" echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.

"Yes. He seemed to think he had