across the library at the photograph of Phil Abingdon.  It was of her that Sir Charles had been speaking when that mysterious seizure had tied his tongue.  That strange, fatal illness, mused Harley, all the more strange in the case of a man supposedly in robust health—­it almost seemed like the working of a malignant will.  For the revelation, whatever its nature, had almost but not quite been made in Harley’s office that evening.  Something, some embarrassment or mental disability, had stopped Sir Charles from completing his statement.  Tonight death had stopped him.

“Was he consulting you professionally, Mr. Harley?” asked the physician.

“He was,” replied Harley, continuing to stare fascinatedly at the photograph on the mantelpiece.  “I am informed,” said he, abruptly, “that Miss Abingdon is out of town?”

Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy fashion.  “She is staying in Devonshire with poor Abingdon’s sister,” he answered.  “I am wondering how we are going to break the news to her.”

Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly been intimate with the late Sir Charles, Harley determined to make use of this opportunity to endeavour to fathom the mystery of the late surgeon’s fears.  “You will not misunderstand me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, “if I venture to ask you one or two rather personal questions respecting Miss Abingdon?”

Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and looked gloomily at the speaker.  “Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I know you by repute for a man of integrity.  But before I answer your questions will you answer one of mine?”

“Certainly.”

“Then my question is this:  Does not your interest cease with the death of your client?”

“Doctor McMurdoch,” said Harley, sternly, “you no doubt believe yourself to be acting as a friend of this bereaved family.  You regard me, perhaps, as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity.  On the contrary, I find myself in a delicate and embarrassing situation.  From Sir Charles’s conversation I had gathered that he entertained certain fears on behalf of his daughter.”

“Indeed,” said Doctor McMurdoch.

“If these fears were well grounded, the danger is not removed, but merely increased by the death of Miss Abingdon’s natural protector.  I regret, sir, that I approached you for information, since you have misjudged my motive.  But far from my interest having ceased, it has now as I see the matter become a sacred duty to learn what it was that Sir Charles apprehended.  This duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I propose to fulfil with or without your assistance.”

“Oh,” said Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “I’m afraid I’ve offended you.  But I meant well, Mr. Harley.”  A faint trace of human emotion showed itself in his deep voice.  “Charley Abingdon and I were students together in Edinburgh,” he explained.  “I was mayhap a little strange.”

His apology was so evidently sincere that Harley relented at once.  “Please say no more, Doctor McMurdoch,” he responded.  “I fully appreciate your feelings in the matter.  At such a time a stranger can only be an intruder; but”—­he fixed his keen eyes upon the physician—­“there is more underlying all this than you suspect or could readily believe.  You will live to know that I have spoken the truth.”