"
Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match,
where, smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the
library. Whether because of his words or because of the presence
of the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again
touched Paul Harley. "You saw or heard nothing on your way across
the square to suggest that any one having designs on your safety
was watching you?"
"Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return
journey, of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless."
"I quite agree with you," said Paul Harley, quietly.
Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the
working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was
momentarily at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was
clamouring for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious
voice whispered: "This man is in danger; protect him." What was
the meaning of it all? He felt that a clue lay somewhere outside
the reach of his intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him
because of his impotence to grasp it.
Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way
which he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery
Lane. "In any event," said his host, "let us dine: for already I
have kept you waiting."
Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the
cosy dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his
glance had met that of Sir Charles--a premonition that this man's
days were numbered.
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