"You may quite possibly be right," he said, gently. "In any
event, I hope you will think as little as possible about the
morbid side of this unhappy business."
"I try to," she assured him, earnestly, "but you can imagine how
hard the task is. I know that you must have some good reason for
your idea; something, I mean, other than the mere words which
have puzzled us all so much. Won't you tell me?"
Now, Paul Harley had determined, since the girl was unacquainted
with Nicol Brinn, to conceal from her all that he had learned
from that extraordinary man. In this determination he had been
actuated, too, by the promptings of the note of danger which,
once seemingly attuned to the movements of Sir Charles Abingdon,
had, after the surgeon's death, apparently become centred upon
himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded the thought that the
cloud might stretch out over the life of this girl who sat beside
him and whom he felt so urgently called upon to protect from such
a menace.
The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it emanate, and by
whom had it been called into being? He looked into the violet
eyes, and as a while before he had moved alone through the
wilderness of London now he seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon
on the border of a spirit world which had no existence for the
multitudes around. Psychically, he was very close to her at that
moment; and when he replied he replied evasively: "I have
absolutely no scrap of evidence, Miss Abingdon, pointing to foul
play.
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