Unless he was the victim of
an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian spies had their peers
in London.
As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir
Charles, Benson opened the door. "We have just finished, sir," he
said, as Harley ran up the steps. "But Mrs. Howett would like to
see you, sir."
"Very good, Benson," replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to
the butler. "I will see her in the dining room, please."
Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room
which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid
for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he
remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir
Charles had died was set at the head of the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking
slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough
drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was
Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
"Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me
for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a
good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally
anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns,
will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set
exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to
dinner?"
"No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, "that was what I was anxious to
explain.
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