"
"Allow me to look," replied Paul Harley.
One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in
turn and examining it critically.
"What have we here!" he exclaimed, presently. "Have blackberries
been served within the week, Mrs. Howett?"
"We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles--God
rest him--said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!" She
turned to Benson. "How is it I never noticed those stains, and
what can have caused them?"
The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all
over with dark purple spots.
CHAPTER XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED
Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed
to the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph
in a silver frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he
induced a sort of auto-hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to
smile at him sadly. Then a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant
face. The soft outline changed, subtly; the lips grew more full,
became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened and grew languorous. He
found himself looking into the face of Ormuz Khan.
"Damn it!" he muttered, awakened from his trance.
He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unaccountable chill. It
might have been caused by the mental picture which he had
conjured up, or it might be another of those mysterious warnings
of which latterly he had had so many without encountering any
positive danger.
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