Fire-Tongue

  CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY

  Some two hours after Paul Harley's examination of Jones, theex-parlourmaid, a shabby street hawker appeared in the Strand, bearing atray containing copies of "Old Moore's Almanac." He was an ugly-lookingfellow with a split lip, and appeared to have neglected to shave for atleast a week. Nobody appeared to be particularly interested, and duringhis slow progression from Wellington Street to the Savoy Hotel he smokedcigarettes almost continuously. Trade was far from brisk, and the vendorof prophecies filled in his spare time by opening car doors, for whichmenial service he collected one three-penny bit and several sixpences.

  This commercial optimist was still haunting the courtyard of the hotelat a time when a very handsome limousine pulled up beside the curb anda sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had been in the apartmentsof Ormuz Khan must have recognized his excellency's private secretary.Turning to the chauffeur, a half-caste of some kind, and ignoring thepresence of the prophet who had generously opened the door, "Youwill return at eight o'clock," he said, speaking perfect and culturedEnglish, "to take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, asI shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury station fora parcel which will be awaiting me there."

  "Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the Hinduwalked into the hotel.

  The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively uponthe pavement.

  Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of ChanceryLane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged into a maze ofcourts with which he was evidently well acquainted. His booksellingenterprise presently terminated, as it had commenced, at The ChanceryAgency.

  Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly transformedhimself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his watch upon thetable before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in half an hour's closethinking.

  His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was this timebeyond reproach. It was the course which logic dictated. Until he hadattempted the task earlier in the day, he could not have supposed it sodifficult to trace the country address of a well-known figure like thatof the Persian.

  This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it, wasalso determined to inspect the premises. But for such a stroke of goodluck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy, he could scarcely havehoped. His course now lay clearly before him. And presently, laying hispipe aside, he took up a telephone which stood upon the dressing tableand rang up a garage with which he had an account.

  "Hello, is that you, Mason?" he said. "Have the racer to meet me atseven o'clock, half-way along Pall Mall."

  Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing everyprecaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the interveningtime at one of his clubs, from which, having made an early dinner, heset off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A rakish-looking gray carresembling a giant torpedo was approaching slowly from the direction ofBuckingham Palace. The driver pulled up as Paul Harley stepped intothe road, and following a brief conversation Harley set out westward,performing a detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a littletown with which he was only slightly acquainted. No evidence ofespionage could he detect, but the note of danger spoke intimately tohis inner consciousness; so that when, the metropolis left behind, hefound himself in the hilly Surrey countryside, more than once he pulledup, sitting silent for a while and listening intently. He failed,always, to detect any sign of pursuit.

  The night was tropically brilliant, hot, and still, but saving thedistant murmur of the city, and ordinary comings and goings along thecountry roads, there was nothing to account for a growing anxiety ofwhich he became conscious.

  He was in gunshot of Old Claybury church tower, when the sight of ahaystack immediately inside a meadow gate suggested a likely hidingplace for the racer; and, having run the car under cover, Harleyproceeded on foot to the little railway station. He approached a porterwho leaned in the doorway. "Could you direct me to the house of hisexcellency Ormuz Khan?" he inquired.

  "Yes, sir," was the reply. "If you follow the uphill road on the otherside of the station until you come to the Manor Park--you will see thegates--and then branch off to the right, taking the road facing thegates. Hillside--that's the name of the house--is about a quarter of amile along."

  Dusk was beginning to fall and, although the nature of his proposedoperations demanded secrecy, he recognized that every hour was precious.Accordingly he walked immediately back to the spot at which he had leftthe car and, following the porter's directions, drove over the line atthe level crossing immediately beyond the station, and proceeded upa tree-lined road until he found himself skirting the railing of anextensive tract of park land.

  Presently heavy gates appeared in view; and then, to the right, anotherlane in which the growing dusk had painted many shadows. He determinedto drive on until he should find a suitable hiding place. And at aspot, as he presently learned, not a hundred yards from Hillside, hediscovered an opening in the hedge which divided the road from a tilledfield. Into this, without hesitation, he turned the racer, backing in,in order that he might be ready for a flying start in case of emergency.Once more he set out on foot.

  He proceeded with caution, walking softly close to the side of the road,and frequently pausing to listen. Advancing in this fashion, he foundhimself standing ere long before an open gateway, and gazing along adrive which presented a vista of utter blackness. A faint sound reachedhis ear--the distant drone of a powerful engine. A big car was mountingthe slope from Lower Claybury Station.