A
peculiarly uninteresting week was drawing to a close, and he was
wondering if this betokened a decreased activity in the higher
criminal circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual
quiescent periods which characterize every form of warfare.
Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to the general public,
occupied something of the position of an unofficial field marshal
of the forces arrayed against evildoers. Throughout the war he
had undertaken confidential work of the highest importance,
especially in regard to the Near East, with which he was
intimately acquainted. A member of the English bar, and the last
court of appeal to which Home Office and Foreign Office alike
came in troubled times, the brass plate upon the door of his
unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed little or nothing
to the uninitiated.
The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air of eager
vitality, must have told the most careless observer that he stood
in the presence of an extraordinary personality. He was slightly
gray at the temples in these days, but young in mind and body,
physically fit, and possessed of an intellectual keenness which
had forced recognition from two hemispheres. His office was part
of an old city residence, and his chambers adjoined his workroom,
so that now, noting that his table clock registered the hour of
six, he pressed a bell which summoned Innes, his confidential
secretary.
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