“I think perhaps I should inform you in the first place that I have a daughter. Her mother has been dead for many years, and perhaps I have not given her the attention which a motherless girl is entitled to expect from her father. I don’t mean,” he said, hastily, “that we are in any sense out of sympathy, but latterly in some way I must confess that we have got a little out of touch.” He glanced anxiously at his guest, indeed almost apologetically. “You will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that this seeming preamble may prove to have a direct bearing upon what I propose to tell you?” “Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles,” said Harley with sympathy. “I am all attention, and I shall only interrupt you in the event of any point not being quite clear.” “Thank you,” said Sir Charles. “I find it so much easier to explain the matter now. To continue, there is a certain distinguished Oriental gentleman--” He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup plates. “It is always delightful to chat with one who knows India so well as you do,” he continued, glancing significantly at his guest. Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of this abrupt change in the conversation, nodded in agreement. “The call of the East,” he replied, “is a very real thing. Only one who has heard it can understand and appreciate all it means.” The butler, an excellently trained servant, went about his work with quiet efficiency, and once Harley heard him mutter rapid instructions to the surly parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully in the background. When again host and guest found themselves alone: “I don’t in any way distrust the servants,” explained Sir Charles, “but one cannot hope to prevent gossip.” He raised his serviette to his lips and almost immediately resumed: “I was about to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter’s--” He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily pouring out a glass of water, he drank a sip or two and Paul Harley noticed that his hand was shaking nervously. He thought of the photograph in the library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possible drift of the conversation. This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently experienced such difficulty in coming. It was something which concerned his daughter; and, mentally visualizing the pure oval face and taunting eyes of the library photograph, Harley found it impossible to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis Abingdon. Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must be held responsible for his present condition, then truly it was a dreadful one. No longer able to conceal his concern, Harley stood up. “If the story distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles,” he said, “I beg--” Sir Charles waved his hand reassuringly. “A mere nothing. It will pass,” he whispered. “But I fear,” continued Harley, “that--”