Fire Tongue

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"In short, Sir Charles was, beyond doubt, at the time of his
death, receiving close attention from some mysterious person or
persons the object of which he believed to be his death. Have I
gone beyond established facts, Innes, thus far?"

"No, Mr. Harley. So far you are on solid ground."

"Good. Leaving out of the question those points which we hope to
clear up when the evidence of Miss Abingdon becomes
available--how did Sir Charles learn that Nicol Brinn knew the
meaning of Fire-Tongue?"

"He may have heard something to that effect in India."

"If this were so he would scarcely have awaited a chance
encounter to prosecute his inquiries, since Nicol Brinn is a
well-known figure in London and Sir Charles had been home for
several years."

"Mr. Brinn may have said something after the accident and before
he was in full possession of his senses which gave Sir Charles a
clue."

"He did not, Innes. I called at the druggist's establishment this
morning. They recalled the incident, of course. Mr. Brinn never
uttered a word until, opening his eyes, he said: 'Hello! Am I
much damaged?'"

Innes smiled discreetly. "A remarkable character, Mr. Harley," he
said. "Your biggest difficulty at the moment is to fit Mr. Nicol
Brinn into the scheme."

"He won't fit at all, Innes! We come to the final and conclusive
item of evidence substantiating my theory of Sir Charles's
murder: Nicol Brinn believes he was murdered. Nicol Brinn has
known others, in his own words, 'to go the same way.' Yet Nicol
Brinn, a millionaire, a scholar, a sportsman, and a gentleman,
refuses to open his mouth."

"He is afraid of something."

"He is afraid of Fire-Tongue--whatever Fire-Tongue may be! I
never saw a man of proved courage more afraid in my life. He
prefers to court arrest for complicity in a murder rather than
tell what he knows!"

"It's unbelievable."

"It would be, Innes, if Nicol Brinn's fears were personal."

Paul Harley checked his steps in front of the watchful secretary
and gazed keenly into his eyes.

"Death has no terrors for Nicol Brinn," he said slowly. "All his
life he has toyed with danger. He admitted to me that during the
past seven years he had courted death. Isn't it plain enough,
Innes? If ever a man possessed all that the world had to offer,
Nicol Brinn is that man. In such a case and in such circumstances
what do we look for?"

Innes shook his head.

"We look for the woman!" snapped Paul Harley.

There came a rap at the door and Miss Smith, the typist, entered.
"Miss Phil Abingdon and Doctor McMurdoch," she said.

"Good heavens!" muttered Harley. "So soon? Why, she can only
just--" He checked himself. "Show them in, Miss Smith," he
directed.

As the typist went out, followed by Innes, Paul Harley found
himself thinking of the photograph in Sir Charles Abingdon's
library and waiting with an almost feverish expectancy for the
appearance of the original.

Almost immediately Phil Abingdon came in, accompanied by the
sepulchral Doctor McMurdoch. And Harley found himself wondering
whether her eyes were really violet-coloured or whether intense
emotion heroically repressed had temporarily lent them that
appearance.

Surprise was the predominant quality of his first impression. Sir
Charles Abingdon's daughter was so exceedingly vital--petite and
slender, yet instinct with force. The seeming repose of the
photograph was misleading. That her glance could be naive he
realized--as it could also be gay--and now her eyes were sad with
a sadness so deep as to dispel the impression of lightness
created by her dainty form, her alluring, mobile lips, and the
fascinating, wavy, red-brown hair.

She did not wear mourning. He recalled that there had been no
time to procure it. She was exquisitely and fashionably dressed,
and even the pallor of grief could not rob her cheeks of the
bloom born of Devon sunshine. He had expected her to be pretty.
He was surprised to find her lovely.

Doctor McMurdoch stood silent in the doorway, saying nothing by
way of introduction. But nothing was necessary. Phil Abingdon
came forward quite naturally--and quite naturally Paul Harley
discovered her little gloved hand to lie clasped between both his
own. It was more like a reunion than a first meeting and was so
laden with perfect understanding that, even yet, speech seemed
scarcely worth while.

Thinking over that moment, in later days, Paul Harley remembered
that he had been prompted by some small inner voice to say: "So
you have come back?" It was recognition. Of the hundreds of men
and women who came into his life for a while, and ere long went
out of it again, he knew, by virtue of that sixth sense of his,
that Phil Abingdon had come to stay--whether for joy or sorrow he
could not divine.

It was really quite brief--that interval of silence--although
perhaps long enough to bridge the ages.

"How brave of you, Miss Abingdon!" said Harley. "How wonderfully
brave of you!"

"She's an Abingdon," came the deep tones of Doctor McMurdoch.
"She arrived only two hours ago and here she is."

"There can be no rest for me, Doctor," said the girl, and strove
valiantly to control her voice, "until this dreadful doubt is
removed. Mr. Harley"--she turned to him appealingly--"please
don't study my feelings in the least; I can bear anything--now;
just tell me what happened. Oh! I had to come. I felt that I had
to come."

As Paul Harley placed an armchair for his visitor, his glance met
that of Doctor McMurdoch, and in the gloomy eyes he read
admiration of this girl who could thus conquer the inherent
weakness of her sex and at such an hour and after a dreadful
ordeal set her hand to the task which fate had laid upon her.

Doctor McMurdoch sat down on a chair beside the door, setting his
silk hat upon the floor and clasping his massive chin with his
hand.

"I will endeavour to do as you wish, Miss Abingdon," said Harley,
glancing anxiously at the physician.

But Doctor McMurdoch returned only a dull stare. It was evident
that this man of stone was as clay in the hands of Phil Abingdon.
He deprecated the strain which she was imposing upon her nervous
system, already overwrought to the danger point, but he was
helpless for all his dour obstinacy. Harley, looking down at the
girl's profile, read a new meaning into the firm line of her
chin. He was conscious of an insane desire to put his arms around
this new acquaintance who seemed in some indefinable yet definite
way to belong to him and to whisper the tragic story he had to
tell, comforting her the while.

He began to relate what had taken place at the first interview,
when Sir Charles had told him of the menace which he had believed
to hang over his life. He spoke slowly, deliberately, choosing
his words with a view to sparing Phil Abingdon's feelings as far
as possible.

She made no comment throughout, but her fingers alternately
tightened and relaxed their hold upon the arms of the chair in
which she was seated. Once, at some reference to words spoken by
her father, her sensitive lips began to quiver and Harley,
watching her, paused. She held the chair arms more tightly.
"Please go on, Mr. Harley," she said.

The words were spoken in a very low voice, but the speaker looked
up bravely, and Harley, reassured, proceeded uninterruptedly to
the end of the story. Then:

"At some future time, Miss Abingdon," he concluded, "I hope you
will allow me to call upon you. There is so much to be
discussed--"

Again Phil Abingdon looked up into his face. "I have forced
myself to come to see you to-day," she said, "because I realize
there is no service I can do poor dad so important as finding
out--"

"I understand," Harley interrupted, gently. "But--"

"No, no." Phil Abingdon shook her head rebelliously. "Please ask
me what you want to know. I came for that."

He met the glance of violet eyes, and understood something of
Doctor McMurdoch's helplessness. He found his thoughts again
wandering into strange, wild byways and was only recalled to the
realities by the dry, gloomy voice of the physician. "Go on, Mr.
Harley," said Doctor McMurdoch. "She has grand courage."

CHAPTER VII. CONFESSIONS

Paul Harley crossed the room and stood in front of the tall
Burmese cabinet. He experienced the utmost difficulty in adopting
a judicial attitude toward his beautiful visitor. Proximity
increased his mental confusion. Therefore he stood on the
opposite side of the office ere beginning to question her.

"In the first place, Miss Abingdon," he said, speaking very
deliberately, "do you attach any particular significance to the
term 'Fire-Tongue'?"

Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor McMurdoch. "None at all,
Mr. Harley," she replied. "The doctor has already told me of--"

"You know why I ask?" She inclined her head.

"And Mr. Nicol Brinn? Have you met this gentleman?"

"Never. I know that Dad had met him and was very much interested
in him."

"In what way?"

"I have no idea. He told me that he thought Mr. Brinn one of the
most singular characters he had ever known. But beyond describing
his rooms in Piccadilly, which had impressed him as
extraordinary, he said very little about Mr. Brinn. He sounded
interesting and "--she hesitated and her eyes filled with
tears--"I asked Dad to invite him home." Again she paused. This
retrospection, by making the dead seem to live again, added to
the horror of her sudden bereavement, and Harley would most
gladly have spared her more. "Dad seemed strangely disinclined to
do so," she added.

At that the keen investigator came to life within Harley. "Your
father did not appear anxious to bring Mr. Brinn to his home?" he
asked, eagerly.

"Not at all anxious. This was all the more strange because Dad
invited Mr. Brinn to his club."

"He gave no reason for his refusal?"

"Oh, there was no refusal, Mr. Harley. He merely evaded the
matter. I never knew why."

"H'm," muttered Harley. "And now, Miss Abingdon, can you
enlighten me respecting the identity of the Oriental gentleman
with whom he had latterly become acquainted?"

Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor McMurdoch and then
lowered her head. She did not answer at once. "I know to whom you
refer, Mr. Harley," she said, finally. "But it was I who had made
this gentleman's acquaintance. My father did not know him."

"Then I wonder why he mentioned him?" murmured Harley.

"That I cannot imagine. I have been wondering ever since Doctor
McMurdoch told me."

"You recognize the person to whom Sir Charles referred?"

"Yes. He could only have meant Ormuz Khan."

"Ormuz Khan--" echoed Harley. "Where have I heard that name?"

"He visits England periodically, I believe. In fact, he has a
house somewhere near London. I met him at Lady Vail's."

"Lady Vail's? His excellency moves, then, in diplomatic circles?
Odd that I cannot place him."

"I have a vague idea, Mr. Harley, that he is a financier. I seem
to have heard that he had something to do with the Imperial Bank
of Iran." She glanced naively at Harley. "Is there such a bank?"
she asked.

"There is," he replied. "Am I to understand that Ormuz Khan is a
Persian?"

"I believe he is a Persian," said Phil Abingdon, rather
confusedly. "To be quite frank, I know very little about him."

Paul Harley gazed steadily at the speaker for a moment. "Can you
think of any reason why Sir Charles should have worried about
this gentleman?" he asked.

The girl lowered her head again. "He paid me a lot of attention,"
she finally confessed.

"This meeting at Lady Vail's, then, was the first of many?"

"Oh, no--not of many! I saw him two or three times. But he began
to send me most extravagant presents. I suppose it was his
Oriental way of paying a compliment, but Dad objected."

"Of course he would. He knew his Orient and his Oriental. I
assume, Miss Abingdon, that you were in England during the years
that your father lived in the East?"

"Yes. I was at school. I have never been in the East."

Paul Harley hesitated. He found himself upon dangerously delicate
ground and was temporarily at a loss as to how to proceed.
Unexpected aid came from the taciturn Doctor McMurdoch.

"He never breathed a word of this to me, Phil," he said,
gloomily. "The impudence of the man! Small wonder Abingdon
objected."

Phil Abingdon tilted her chin forward rebelliously.

"Ormuz Khan was merely unfamiliar with English customs," she
retorted. "There was nothing otherwise in his behaviour to which
any one could have taken exception."

"What's that!" demanded the physician. "If a man of colour paid
his heathen attentions to my daughter--"

"But you have no daughter, Doctor."

"No. But if I had--"

"If you had," echoed Phil Abingdon, and was about to carry on
this wordy warfare which, Harley divined, was of old standing
between the two, when sudden realization of the purpose of the
visit came to her. She paused, and he saw her biting her lips
desperately. Almost at random he began to speak again.

"So far as you are aware, then, Miss Abingdon, Sir Charles never
met Ormuz Khan?"

"He never even saw him, Mr. Harley, that I know of."

"It is most extraordinary that he should have given me the
impression that this man--for I can only suppose that he referred
to Ormuz Khan--was in some way associated with his fears."

"I must remind you, Mr. Harley," Doctor McMurdoch interrupted,
"that poor Abingdon was a free talker. His pride, I take it,
which was strong, had kept him silent on this matter with me, but
he welcomed an opportunity of easing his mind to one discreet and
outside the family circle. His words to you may have had no
bearing upon the thing he wished to consult you about."

"H'm," mused Harley. "That's possible. But such was not my
impression."

He turned again to Phil Abingdon. "This Ormuz Khan, I understood
you to say, actually resides in or near London?"

"He is at present living at the Savoy, I believe. He also has a
house somewhere outside London."

There were a hundred other questions Paul Harley was anxious to
ask: some that were professional but more that were personal. He
found himself resenting the intrusion of this wealthy Oriental
into the life of the girl who sat there before him. And because
he could read a kindred resentment in the gloomy eye of Doctor
McMurdoch, he was drawn spiritually closer to that dour
character.

By virtue of his training he was a keen psychologist, and he
perceived clearly enough that Phil Abingdon was one of those
women in whom a certain latent perversity is fanned to life by
opposition. Whether she was really attracted by Ormuz Khan or
whether she suffered his attentions merely because she knew them
to be distasteful to others, he could not yet decide.

Anger threatened him--as it had threatened him when he had
realized that Nicol Brinn meant to remain silent. He combated it,
for it had no place in the judicial mind of the investigator. But
he recognized its presence with dismay. Where Phil Abingdon was
concerned he could not trust himself. In her glance, too, and in
the manner of her answers to questions concerning the Oriental,
there was a provoking femininity--a deliberate and baffling
intrusion of the eternal Eve.

He stared questioningly across at Doctor McMurdoch and perceived
a sudden look of anxiety in the physician's face. Quick as the
thought which the look inspired, he turned to Phil Abingdon.

She was sitting quite motionless in the big armchair, and her
face had grown very pale. Even as he sprang forward he saw her
head droop.

"She has fainted," said Doctor McMurdoch. "I'm not surprised."

"Nor I," replied Harley. "She should not have come."

He opened the door communicating with his private apartments and
ran out. But, quick as he was, Phil Abingdon had recovered before
he returned with the water for which he had gone. Her reassuring
smile was somewhat wan. "How perfectly silly of me!" she said. "I
shall begin to despise myself."

Presently he went down to the street with his visitors.

"There must be so much more you want to know, Mr. Harley," said
Phil Abingdon. "Will you come and see me?"

He promised to do so. His sentiments were so strangely complex
that he experienced a desire for solitude in order that he might
strive to understand them. As he stood at the door watching the
car move toward the Strand he knew that to-day he could not count
upon his intuitive powers to warn him of sudden danger. But he
keenly examined the faces of passers-by and stared at the
occupants of those cabs and cars which were proceeding in the
same direction as the late Sir Charles Abingdon's limousine.

No discovery rewarded him, however, and he returned upstairs to
his office deep in thought. "I am in to nobody," he said as he
passed the desk at which Innes was at work.

"Very good, Mr. Harley."

Paul Harley walked through to the private office and, seating
himself at the big, orderly table, reached over to a cupboard
beside him and took out a tin of smoking mixture. He began very
slowly to load his pipe, gazing abstractedly across the room at
the tall Burmese cabinet.

He realized that, excepting the extraordinary behaviour and the
veiled but significant statements of Nicol Brinn, his theory that
Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from natural causes rested upon
data of the most flimsy description. From Phil Abingdon he had
learned nothing whatever. Her evidence merely tended to confuse
the case more hopelessly.

It was sheer nonsense to suppose that Ormuz Khan, who was
evidently interested in the girl, could be in any way concerned
in the death of her father. Nevertheless, as an ordinary matter
of routine, Paul Harley, having lighted his pipe, made a note on
a little block:

Cover activities of Ormuz Khan.

He smoked reflectively for a while and then added another note:

Watch Nicol Brinn.

For ten minutes or more he sat smoking and thinking, his unseeing
gaze set upon the gleaming lacquer of the cabinet; and presently,
as he smoked, he became aware of an abrupt and momentary chill.
His sixth sense was awake again. Taking up a pencil, he added a
third note:

Watch yourself. You are in danger.

CHAPTER VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS

Deep in reflection and oblivious of the busy London life around
him, Paul Harley walked slowly along the Strand. Outwardly he was
still the keen-eyed investigator who could pry more deeply into a
mystery than any other in England; but to-day his mood was
introspective. He was in a brown study.

The one figure which had power to recall him to the actual world
suddenly intruded itself upon his field of vision. From dreams
which he recognized in the moment of awakening to have been of
Phil Abingdon, he was suddenly aroused to the fact that Phil
Abingdon herself was present. Perhaps, half subconsciously, he
had been looking for her.

Veiled and dressed in black, he saw her slim figure moving
through the throng. He conceived the idea that there was
something furtive in her movements. She seemed to be hurrying
along as if desirous of avoiding recognition. Every now and again
she glanced back, evidently in search of a cab, and a dormant
suspicion which had lain in Harley's mind now became animate.
Phil Abingdon was coming from the direction of the Savoy Hotel.
Was it possible that she had been to visit Ormuz Khan?

Harley crossed the Strand and paused just in front of the
hurrying, black-clad figure. "Miss Abingdon," he said, "a sort of
instinct told me that I should meet you to-day."

She stopped suddenly, and through the black veil which she wore
he saw her eyes grow larger--or such was the effect as she opened
them widely. Perhaps he misread their message. To him Phil
Abingdon's expression was that of detected guilt. More than ever
he was convinced of the truth of his suspicions. "Perhaps you
were looking for a cab?" he suggested.

Overcoming her surprise, or whatever emotion had claimed her at
the moment of this unexpected meeting, Phil Abingdon took
Harley's outstretched hand and held it for a moment before
replying. "I had almost despaired of finding one," she said, "and
I am late already."

"The porter at the Savoy would get you one."

"I have tried there and got tired of waiting," she answered quite
simply.

For a moment Harley's suspicions were almost dispelled, and,
observing an empty cab approaching, he signalled to the man to
pull up.

"Where do you want to go to?" he inquired, opening the door.

"I am due at Doctor McMurdoch's," she replied, stepping in.

Paul Harley hesitated, glancing from the speaker to the driver.

"I wonder if you have time to come with me," said Phil Abingdon.
"I know the doctor wants to see you."

"I will come with pleasure," replied Harley, a statement which
was no more than true.

Accordingly he gave the necessary directions to the taxi man and
seated himself beside the girl in the cab.

"I am awfully glad of an opportunity of a chat with you, Mr.
Harley," said Phil Abingdon. "The last few days have seemed like
one long nightmare to me." She sighed pathetically. "Surely
Doctor McMurdoch is right, and all the horrible doubts which
troubled us were idle ones, after all?"

She turned to Harley, looking almost eagerly into his face. "Poor
daddy hadn't an enemy in the world, I am sure," she said. "His
extraordinary words to you no doubt have some simple explanation.
Oh, it would be such a relief to know that his end was a natural
one. At least it would dull the misery of it all a little bit."

The appeal in her eyes was of a kind which Harley found much
difficulty in resisting. It would have been happiness to offer
consolation to this sorrowing girl. But, although he could not
honestly assure her that he had abandoned his theories, he
realized that the horror of her suspicions was having a dreadful
effect upon Phil Abingdon's mind.

"You may quite possibly be right," he said, gently. "In any
event, I hope you will think as little as possible about the
morbid side of this unhappy business."

"I try to," she assured him, earnestly, "but you can imagine how
hard the task is. I know that you must have some good reason for
your idea; something, I mean, other than the mere words which
have puzzled us all so much. Won't you tell me?"

Now, Paul Harley had determined, since the girl was unacquainted
with Nicol Brinn, to conceal from her all that he had learned
from that extraordinary man. In this determination he had been
actuated, too, by the promptings of the note of danger which,
once seemingly attuned to the movements of Sir Charles Abingdon,
had, after the surgeon's death, apparently become centred upon
himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded the thought that the
cloud might stretch out over the life of this girl who sat beside
him and whom he felt so urgently called upon to protect from such
a menace.

The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it emanate, and by
whom had it been called into being? He looked into the violet
eyes, and as a while before he had moved alone through the
wilderness of London now he seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon
on the border of a spirit world which had no existence for the
multitudes around. Psychically, he was very close to her at that
moment; and when he replied he replied evasively: "I have
absolutely no scrap of evidence, Miss Abingdon, pointing to foul
play. The circumstances were peculiar, of course, but I have
every confidence in Doctor McMurdoch's efficiency. Since he is
satisfied, it would be mere impertinence on my part to question
his verdict."

Phil Abingdon repeated the weary sigh and turned her head aside,
glancing down to where with one small shoe she was restlessly
tapping the floor of the cab. They were both silent for some
moments.

"Don't you trust me?" she asked, suddenly. "Or don't you think I
am clever enough to share your confidence?"

As she spoke she looked at him challengingly, and he felt all the
force of personality which underlay her outward lightness of
manner.

"I both trust you and respect your intelligence," he answered,
quietly. "If I withhold anything from you, I am prompted by a
very different motive from the one you suggest."

"Then you are keeping something from me," she said, softly. "I
knew you were."

"Miss Abingdon," replied Harley, "when the worst trials of this
affair are over, I want to have a long talk with you. Until then,
won't you believe that I am acting for the best?"

But Phil Abingdon's glance was unrelenting.

"In your opinion it may be so, but you won't do me the honour of
consulting mine."

Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but had hoped that she
would not adopt it. She possessed in a high degree the feminine
art of provoking a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the
fact that she had thus shifted the discussion from the abstract
to the personal. He smiled slightly, and Phil Abingdon's
expression relaxed in response and she lowered her eyes quickly.
"Why do you persistently treat me like a child?" she said.

"I don't know," replied Harley, delighted but bewildered by her
sudden change of mood. "Perhaps because I want to."

She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly out of the cab
window; and Harley did not break this silence, much as he would
have liked to do so. He was mentally reviewing his labours of the
preceding day when, in the character of a Colonial visitor with
much time on his hands, he had haunted the Savoy for hours in the
hope of obtaining a glimpse of Ormuz Khan. His vigil had been
fruitless, and on returning by a roundabout route to his office
he had bitterly charged himself with wasting valuable time upon a
side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat in his study endeavouring
to arrange his ideas in order, he had discovered many points in
his own defence.

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