sed. Because each
one had seemed like twelve, she had ceased to rebel against this sweet
weakness, which, for the first time in her life, had robbed her of some
of her individuality, and had taught her that she was a woman to whom
mastery by man is exquisite slavery. Suddenly she spoke.

"Of course I will come, Your Excellency," she said. "I will see Mrs.
McMurdoch at once, but I know she will not refuse."

"Naturally she will not refuse, Miss Abingdon," he returned in a grave
voice. "The happiness of so many people is involved."

"It is so good of you," she said, standing up. "I shall never forget
your kindness."

He rose, bowing deeply, from a European standpoint too deeply.

"Kindness is a spiritual investment," he said, "which returns us
interest tenfold. If I can be sure of Mrs. McMurdoch's acceptance,
I will request permission to take my leave now, for I have an urgent
business appointment to keep, after which I will call for you. Can you
be ready by noon?"

"Yes, we shall be ready."

Phil Abingdon held out her hand in a curiously hesitant manner. The
image of Paul Harley had become more real, more insistent. Her mind
was in a strangely chaotic state, so that when the hand of Ormuz Khan
touched her own, she repressed a start and laughed in an embarrassed
way.

She knew that her heart was singing, but under the song lay something
cold, and when Ormuz Khan had bowed himself from the room, she found
herself thinking, not of the newly departed visitor, nor even of Paul
Harley, but of her dead father. In spite of the sunshine which flooded
the room, her flesh turned cold and she wondered if the uncanny Persian
possessed some strange power.

Clearly as though he had stood beside her, she seemed to hear the
beloved voice of her father. It was imagination, of course, she knew
this; but it was uncannily real.

She thought that he was calling her, urgently, beseechingly:

"Phil.... Phil...."

CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD

Paul Harley raised his aching head and looked wearily about him. At
first, as might be expected, he thought that he was dreaming. He lay
upon a low divan and could only suppose that he had been transported to
India.

Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and he realized that he
had been rendered unconscious by the blow of a sandbag or some similar
weapon while telephoning from the station master's office at Lower
Claybury. How long a time had elapsed since that moment he wa