Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner. The image of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent. Her mind was in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand of Ormûz Khân touched her own, she repressed a start and laughed in an embarrassed way.
She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay something cold, and when Ormûz Khân had bowed himself from the room, she found herself thinking, not of the newly departed visitor, nor even of Paul Harley, but of her dead father. In spite of the sunshine which flooded the room, her flesh turned cold, and she wondered if the uncanny Persian possessed some strange power.
Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear the beloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she knew this; but it was uncannily real.
She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:
"Phil....Phil...."
