It
was not the voice of an Oriental. Furthermore, it held a note of
command, and something, too, which inspired trust.
She looked quickly about her to make sure that she was alone. And
then, running swiftly to the window from which the sound had
come, she moved a heavy gilded fastening which closed it, and
drew open the heavy leaves.
A narrow terrace was revealed with a shrubbery beyond; and
standing on the terrace was a tall, thin man wearing a light coat
over evening dress. He looked pale, gaunt, and unshaven, and
although the regard of his light eyes was almost dreamy, there
was something very tense in his pose.
"I am Nicol Brinn," said the stranger. "I knew your father. You
have walked into a trap. I am here to get you out of it. Can you
drive?"
"Do you mean an automobile?" asked Phil, breathlessly.
"A Rolls Royce."
"Yes."
"Come right out."
"My furs! my hat!"
"Something bigger is at stake."
It was all wildly bizarre, almost unbelievable. Phil Abingdon had
experienced in her own person the insidious power of Ormuz Khan.
She now found herself under the spell of a personality at least
as forceful, although in a totally different way. She found
herself running through a winding path amid bushes, piloted by
this strange, unshaven man, to whom on sight she had given her
trust unquestioningly!
"When we reach the car," he said over his shoulder, "ask no
questions--head for home, and don't stop for anything--on two
legs or on four.
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