Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Harley's case to
date, and Detective Inspector Wessex, although he had not
admitted the fact, had nevertheless recognized that from start to
finish the thing did not offer one single line of inquiry which
he would have been capable of following up. That Paul Harley had
found material to work upon, had somehow picked up a definite
clue from this cloudy maze, earned the envious admiration of the
Scotland Yard man.
Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss Abingdon, and
was shown by the butler into a charmingly furnished little
sitting room which was deeply impressed with the personality of
its dainty owner. It was essentially and delightfully feminine.
Yet in the decorations and in the arrangement of the furniture
there was a note of independence which was almost a note of
defiance. Phyllis Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic figure in her
black dress, rose to greet the inspector.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss Abingdon," he said, kindly. "My visit
does not concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps
you might be able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley."
Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but
even before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort
of shock that he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil
Abingdon's eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite
still, twisting his card between her supple fingers.
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