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.”