“I am.”

“You have yet an hour.  Your final decision will be demanded of you at the end of that time.”

Faint sounds of withdrawal followed these words and Harley suddenly discovered himself to be very cold.  The note of danger had touched him.  For long it had been silent.  Now it clamoured insistently.  He knew beyond all doubt that he was approaching a crisis in his life.  At its nature he could not even guess.

He began to pace the room nervously, listening for he knew not what.  His mind was filled with vague imaginings; when at last came an overture to the grim test to be imposed upon him.

A slight metallic sound drew his glance in the direction of the gilded screen.  A sliding door of thick plate glass had been closed behind it, filling the space between the metal work and the curtain.  Then—­the light in the brass lantern became extinguished.

Standing rigidly, fists clenched, Paul Harley watched the curtain.  And as he watched, slowly it was drawn aside.  He found himself looking into a long room which appeared to be practically unfurnished.

The floor was spread with rugs and at the farther end folding doors had been opened, so that he could see into a second room, most elegantly appointed in Persian fashion.  Here were silver lanterns, and many silken cushions, out of which, as from a sea of colour, arose slender pillars, the scheme possessing an air of exotic luxury peculiarly Oriental.

Seated in a carved chair over which a leopard skin had been thrown, and talking earnestly to some invisible companion, whose conversation seemed wholly to enthrall her, was Phil Abingdon!

CHAPTER XXVI.  THE ORCHID OF SLEEP

“My God!” cried Innes, “here is proof that the chief was right!”

Wessex nodded in silent agreement.  On the table lay the report of Merton, the analyst, concerning the stains upon the serviette which Harley had sent from the house of the late Sir Charles Abingdon.  Briefly, it stated that the serviette had been sprinkled with some essential oil, the exact character of which Merton had found himself unable to determine, its perfume, if it ever possessed any, having disappeared.  And the minute quantity obtainable from the linen rendered ordinary tests difficult to apply.  The analyst’s report, however, concluded as follows: 

“Mr. Harley, having foreseen these difficulties, and having apparently suspected that the oil was of Oriental origin, recommended me, in the note which he enclosed with the serviette, to confer with Dr. Warwick Grey.  I send a copy of a highly interesting letter which I have received from Doctor Grey, whose knowledge of Eastern poison is unparalleled, and to whose opinion I attach immense importance.”

It was the contents of this appended letter which had inspired Innes’s remarks.  Indeed, it contained matter which triumphantly established Paul Harley’s theory that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from natural causes.  The letter was as follows: