He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in her white face, and pain; but no anger. Yes—Ormûz Khân was dangerous.
In what respect was he dangerous?
"Phil Abingdon!" Harley whispered, and, in the act of breathing the name, laughed at his own folly.
In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest her in a man of Ormûz Khân's type? He was prepared to learn that there was a mystic side to her personality—a phase in her character which would be responsive to the outré and romantic. But he was loath to admit that she could have any place in her affections for the scented devotee of hyacinths.
Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point. He suppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room. To and fro he walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently his expression underwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since gone out, but he had failed to observe the fact. His eyes had grown unusually bright—and suddenly he stepped to the table and stooping made a note upon the little writing block.
He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came in. "Innes," he said, rapidly, "is there anything of really first-rate importance with which I should deal personally?"
"Well," replied the secretary, glancing at some
