He stepped up to the
first of these and pressed his ear against the glass.
Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth,
musical voice speaking in the room beyond. A woman's voice
answered and, listening intently, he detected the sound of a
closing door.
Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that Phil
Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more
frightened than she had ever been in her life, presently found
herself driving a luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on
to the highroad, and down the slope to Claybury station.
It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley
put into execution a project which he had formed. The ventilator
above the divan, which he had determined to be the spy-hole
through which his every movement was watched, had an ornamental
framework studded with metal knobs. He had recently discovered an
electric bell-push in the centre panel of the massive door of his
prison.
Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring
about the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm
by dint of a giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.
Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the
gilded screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:
"Mr. Paul Harley?"
"Yes," he replied, "I have made my final decision."
"And that is?"
"I agree.
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