In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest her in a man of Ormuz Khan’s type? He was prepared to learn that there was a mystic side to her personality--a phase in her character which would be responsive to the outre and romantic. But he was loath to admit that she could have any place in her affections for the scented devotee of hyacinths. Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point. He suppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room. To and fro he walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently his expression underwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since gone out, but he had failed to observe the fact. His eyes had grown unusually bright--and suddenly he stepped to the table and stooping made a note upon the little writing block. He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came in. “Innes,” he said, rapidly, “is there anything of really first-rate importance with which I should deal personally?” “Well,” replied the secretary, glancing at some papers which he carried, “there is nothing that could not wait until to-morrow at a pinch.” “The pinch has come,” said Harley. “I am going to interview the two most important witnesses in the Abingdon case.” “To whom do you refer, Mr. Harley?” Innes stared rather blankly, as he made the inquiry, whereupon: “I have no time to explain,” continued Harley. “But I have suddenly realized the importance of a seemingly trivial incident which I witnessed. It is these trivial incidents, Innes, which so often contain the hidden clue.” “What! you really think you have a clue at last?” “I do.” The speaker’s face grew grimly serious. “Innes, if I am right, I shall probably proceed to one of two places: the apartments of Ormuz Khan or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen. Remain here until I phone--whatever the hour.” “Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?” Harley nodded. “Yes--do so. You understand, Innes, I am engaged and not to be disturbed on any account?” “I understand. You are going out by the private exit?” “Exactly.” As Innes retired, quietly closing the door, Harley took up the telephone and called Sir Charles Abingdon’s number. He was answered by a voice which he recognized. “This is Paul Harley speaking,” he said. “Is that Benson?” “Yes, sir,” answered the butler. “Good morning, sir.” “Good morning, Benson. I have one or two questions to ask you, and there is something I want you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is out, I presume?” “Yes, sir,” replied Benson, sadly. “At the funeral, sir.” “Is Mrs. Howett in?” “She is, sir.” “I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour, Benson. In the meantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly as it was laid on the night of Sir Charles’s death?” Benson could be heard nervously clearing his throat, then: “Perhaps, sir,” he said, diffidently, “I didn’t quite understand you. Lay the table, sir, for dinner?”