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.

If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated by interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional motives, it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a case.  But while he had personally undertaken the matter of his excellency he had left the work of studying the activities of Nicol Brinn to an assistant.  He could not succeed in convincing himself that, on the evidence available, the movements of the Oriental gentleman were more important than those of the American.

“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.

She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the girl into Doctor McMurdoch’s house.  Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs. McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to anticipate, was as plump and merry and vivacious as her husband was lean, gloomy, and taciturn.  But she was a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved girl showed.  She took her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was good to see.

“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when the formality of presenting Harley was over.  “Are you quite sure that you want to go?”

Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically.  She had raised her veil, and Harley could see that her eyes were full of tears.  “I should like to see the flowers,” she answered.

She was staying at the McMurdochs’ house, and as the object at present in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which the funeral of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley became suddenly conscious of the fact that his presence was inopportune.

“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, turning to the dour physician.  “Shall I await your return or do you expect to be detained?”

But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter.  She stepped up beside him and linked her arm in his.

“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded.  “I want you to.”

As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the hall of the late Sir Charles’s house.  The gloved hand resting on his arm trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon’s face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp tightened as if to reassure him.

It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the presence of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as they stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the late Sir Charles—­which overflowed from a neighbouring room into the lobby and were even piled upon the library table—­were conscious of any strangeness in the situation.