"Innes, if I am
right, I shall probably proceed to one of two places: the
apartments of Ormuz Khan or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen.
Remain here until I phone--whatever the hour."
"Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?"
Harley nodded. "Yes--do so. You understand, Innes, I am engaged
and not to be disturbed on any account?"
"I understand. You are going out by the private exit?"
"Exactly."
As Innes retired, quietly closing the door, Harley took up the
telephone and called Sir Charles Abingdon's number. He was
answered by a voice which he recognized.
"This is Paul Harley speaking," he said. "Is that Benson?"
"Yes, sir," answered the butler. "Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, Benson. I have one or two questions to ask you,
and there is something I want you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is
out, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," replied Benson, sadly. "At the funeral, sir."
"Is Mrs. Howett in?"
"She is, sir."
"I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour, Benson. In the
meantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly
as it was laid on the night of Sir Charles's death?"
Benson could be heard nervously clearing his throat, then:
"Perhaps, sir," he said, diffidently, "I didn't quite understand
you. Lay the table, sir, for dinner?"
"For dinner--exactly. I want everything to be there that was
present on the night of the tragedy; everything.
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