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 obtained any information?" asked Paul Harley, wearily,
glancing at his little table clock.
"He said he had had insufficient time to do much in the matter,
but that there were one or two outstanding facts which might
interest you.
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