by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR
On the following morning the card of His Excellency Ormuz Khan wasbrought to Phil Abingdon in the charming little room which Mrs.McMurdoch had allotted to her for a private sanctum during the period ofher stay under this hospitable roof.
"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at the maid in a startled way. "Isuppose I must see him. Will you ask him to come in, please?"
A few moments later Ormuz Khan entered. He wore faultless morning dress,too faultless; so devoid of any flaw or crease as to have lost itsmasculine character. In his buttonhole was a hyacinth, and in oneslender ivory hand he carried a huge bunch of pink roses, which, bowingdeeply, he presented to the embarrassed girl.
"Dare I venture," he said in his musical voice, bending deeply over herextended hand, "to ask you to accept these flowers? It would honour me.Pray do not refuse."
"Your excellency is very kind," she replied, painfully conscious ofacute nervousness. "It is more than good of you."
"It is good of you to grant me so much pleasure," he returned,sinking gracefully upon a settee, as Phil Abingdon resumed her seat."Condolences are meaningless. Why should I offer them to one of youracute perceptions? But you know--" the long, magnetic eyes regarded herfixedly--"you know what is in my heart."
Phil Abingdon bit her lip, merely nodding in reply.
"Let us then try to forget, if only for a while," said Ormuz Khan. "Icould show you so easily, if you would consent to allow me, that thosewe love never leave us."
The spell of his haunting voice was beginning to have its effect. PhilAbingdon found herself fighting against something which at once repelledand attracted her. She had experienced this unusual attraction before,and this was not the first time that she had combated it. But whereasformerly she had more or less resigned herself to the strange magicwhich lay in the voice and in the eyes of Ormuz Khan, this morning therewas something within her which rebelled fiercely against the Orientalseductiveness of his manner.
She recognized that a hot flush had covered her cheeks. For the imageof Paul Harley, bronzed, gray-eyed, and reproachful, had appeared beforeher mind's eye, and she knew why her resentment of the Persian's charmof manner had suddenly grown so intense. Yet she was not wholly immunefrom it, for:
"Does Your Excellency really mean that?" she whispered.
A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile, but rather that of abeautiful woman than of a man.
"As you of the West," he said, "have advanced step by step, ever upwardin the mechanical sciences, we of the East have advanced also step bystep in other and greater sciences."
"Certainly," she admitted, "you have spoken of such things before."
"I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered uponyour first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those within theever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages have been besideyou, at times unseen by the world, at times unseen by you, veiled by themist which men call death, but which is no more than a curtain behindwhich we sometimes step for a while. In the East we have learned toraise that curtain; in the West are triflers who make like claims,but whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is--" And he snapped hisfingers contemptuously.
The strange personality of the man was having its effect. PhilAbingdon's eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his words.Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit--aspirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could haveproduced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized,and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certainconditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic,whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even hermind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords withinher--chords which had never responded to any other human voice.
It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.
"Your Excellency almost frightens me," she whispered. "Yet I do notdoubt that you speak of what you know."
"It is so," he returned, gravely. "At any hour, day or night, if youcare to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But," helowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, "the real object ofmy visit is concerned with more material things."
"Indeed," said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of OrmuzKhan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had establishedbetween them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of PaulHarley.
"I bring you a message," he continued, "from a friend."
With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him.
"From," she began--but her lips would not frame the name.
"From Mr. Paul Harley," he said, inclining his head gravely.
"Oh! tell me, tell me!"
"I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his absencemay have distressed you."
"Yes, yes," she said, eagerly.
"But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has foundit necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out of London fora while."
"Oh," Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Your Excellency, how gladI am to hear that he is safe!"
The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting thatthe flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and noting alsothe expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of her sweet lips.
"He is my guest," continued Ormuz Khan, "my honoured guest."
"He is with you?" exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.
"With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he found a natural ally, sincemy concern was as great as his own. I do not conceal from you, MissAbingdon, that he is danger."
"In danger?" she whispered.
"It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There is a matter of vitalurgency, however, in which you can assist him."
"I?" she exclaimed.
"No one but you." Ormuz Khan raised his slender hand gracefully. "I begyou, do not misunderstand me. In the first place, would Mr. Harley haveasked you to visit him at my home, if he had not been well assuredthat you could do so with propriety? In the second place, should I, whorespect you more deeply than any woman in the world, consent to yourcoming unchaperoned? Miss Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you inMr. Harley's name and in my own, prevail upon Mrs. McMurdoch to acceptthe invitation which I bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surreyhome."
He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier addressing his queen. Hislow musical voice held a note that was almost a note of adoration. PhilAbingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome ivory face, and strove formental composure before replying.
Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell upon her. Of this shewas well aware. In other words, her thoughts were not entirely her own,but in a measure were promptings from that powerful will.
Indeed, her heart was beating wildly at the mere thought that she wasto see Paul Harley again that very day. She had counted the hours sincetheir last meeting, and knew exactly how many had elapsed. Because eachone had seemed like twelve, she had ceased to rebel against this sweetweakness, which, for the first time in her life, had robbed her of someof her individuality, and had taught her that she was a woman to whommastery by man is exquisite slavery. Suddenly she spoke.
"Of course I will come, Your Excellency," she said. "I will see Mrs.McMurdoch at once, but I know she will not refuse."
"Naturally she will not refuse, Miss Abingdon," he returned in a gravevoice. "The happiness of so many people is involved."
"It is so good of you," she said, standing up. "I shall never forgetyour kindness."
He rose, bowing deeply, from a European standpoint too deeply.
"Kindness is a spiritual investment," he said, "which returns usinterest tenfold. If I can be sure of Mrs. McMurdoch's acceptance,I will request permission to take my leave now, for I have an urgentbusiness appointment to keep, after which I will call for you. Can yoube ready by noon?"
"Yes, w
e shall be ready."
Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner. Theimage of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent. Her mindwas in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand of Ormuz Khantouched her own, she repressed a start and laughed in an embarrassedway.
She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay somethingcold, and when Ormuz Khan had bowed himself from the room, she foundherself thinking, not of the newly departed visitor, nor even of PaulHarley, but of her dead father. In spite of the sunshine which floodedthe room, her flesh turned cold and she wondered if the uncanny Persianpossessed some strange power.
Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear thebeloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she knewthis; but it was uncannily real.
She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:
"Phil.... Phil...."
