He stood quite still, listening.
Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment, and often enough
asked himself what he had expected to hear. It was from this
room, on an earlier occasion, that he had heard the ominous
movements in the apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.
"Benson," he called, opening the library door. As the man came
along the hall: "I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my
secretary," he explained. "There it is, on the table. When the
district messenger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him
the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other receipt than
that of Mr. Innes."
"Very good, sir."
Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.
"Good day, sir," said the butler.
"Good day, Benson," called Harley, hurrying out to the waiting
cab. "Number 236 South Lambeth Road," he directed the man.
Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the cushions heaving
a long sigh. The irksome period of inaction was ended. The cloud
which for a time had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He
was by no means sure that enlightenment had come in time, but at
least he was in hot pursuit of a tangible clue, and he must hope
that it would lead him, though tardily, to the heart of this
labyrinth which concealed--what?
Which concealed something, or someone, known and feared as
Fire-Tongue.
For the moment he must focus upon establishing, beyond query or
doubt, the fact that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from
natural causes.
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