Fire-Tongue

CHAPTER I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY

Some of Paul Harley’s most interesting cases were brought to his notice

in an almost accidental way. Although he closed his office in Chancery

Lane sharply at the hour of six, the hour of six by no means marked the

end of his business day. His work was practically ceaseless. But even in

times of leisure, at the club or theatre, fate would sometimes cast in

his path the first slender thread which was ultimately to lead him into

some unsuspected labyrinth, perhaps in the underworld of London, perhaps

in a city of the Far East.

His investigation of the case of the man with the shaven skull afforded

an instance of this, and even more notable was his first meeting with

Major Jack Ragstaff of the Cavalry Club, a meeting which took place

after the office had been closed, but which led to the unmasking of

perhaps the most cunning murderer in the annals of crime.

One summer’s evening when the little clock upon his table was rapidly

approaching the much-desired hour, Harley lay back in his chair and

stared meditatively across his private office in the direction of a

large and very handsome Burmese cabinet, which seemed strangely out of

place amid the filing drawers, bookshelves, and other usual impedimenta

of a professional man. A peculiarly uninteresting week was drawing to

a close, and he was wondering if this betokened a decreased activity in

the higher criminal circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual

quiescent periods which characterize every form of warfare.

Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to the general public,

occupied something of the position of an unofficial field marshal of the

forces arrayed against evildoers. Throughout the war he had undertaken

confidential work of the highest importance, especially in regard to

the Near East, with which he was intimately acquainted. A member of

the English bar, and the last court of appeal to which Home Office and

Foreign Office alike came in troubled times, the brass plate upon the

door of his unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed little or

nothing to the uninitiated.

The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air of eager vitality,

must have told the most careless observer that he stood in the presence

of an extraordinary personality. He was slightly gray at the temples in

these days, but young in mind and body, physically fit, and possessed

of an intellectual keenness which had forced recognition from two

hemispheres. His office was part of an old city residence, and his

chambers adjoined his workroom, so that now, noting that his table clock

registered the hour of six, he pressed a bell which summoned Innes, his

confidential secretary.

“Well, Innes,” said Harley, looking around, “another uneventful day.”

“Very uneventful, Mr. Harley. About a month of this and you will have to

resume practice at the bar.”

Paul Harley laughed.

“Not a bit likely, Innes,” he replied. “No more briefs for me. I shall

retire to Norfolk and devote my declining years to fishing.”

“I don’t know that fishing would entirely satisfy me,” said Innes.

“It would more than satisfy me,” returned Harley. “But every man to his

own ambition. Well, there is no occasion to wait; you might as well get

along. But what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

“Well,” replied Innes, laying a card upon the table, “I was just coming

in with it when you rang.”

Paul Harley glanced at the card.

“Sir Charles Abingdon,” he read aloud, staring reflectively at his

secretary. “That is the osteologist?”

“Yes,” answered Innes, “but I fancy he has retired from practice.”

“Ah,” murmured Harley, “I wonder what he wants. I suppose I had better

see him, as I fancy that he and I met casually some years ago in India.

Ask him to come in, will you?”

Innes retiring, there presently entered a distinguished-looking, elderly

gentleman upon whose florid face rested an expression not unlike that of

embarrassment.

“Mr. Harley,” he began, “I feel somewhat ill at ease in encroaching

upon your time, for I am by no means sure that my case comes within your

particular province.”

“Sit down, Sir Charles,” said Harley with quiet geniality. “Officially,

my working day is ended; but if nothing comes of your visit beyond a

chat it will have been very welcome. Calcutta, was it not, where we last

met?”

“It was,” replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and cane upon the table

and sitting down rather wearily in a big leather armchair which Harley

had pushed forward. “If I presume upon so slight an acquaintance, I am

sorry, but I must confess that only the fact of having met you socially

encouraged me to make this visit.”

He raised his eyes to Harley’s face and gazed at him with that

peculiarly searching look which belongs to members of his profession;

but mingled with it was an expression of almost pathetic appeal, of

appeal for understanding, for sympathy of some kind.

“Go on, Sir Charles,” said Harley. He pushed forward a box of cigars.

“Will you smoke?”

“Thanks, no,” was the answer.

Sir Charles evidently was oppressed by some secret trouble, thus Harley

mused silently, as, taking out a tin of tobacco from a cabinet beside

him, he began in leisurely manner to load a briar. In this he desired

to convey that he treated the visit as that of a friend, and also,

since business was over, that Sir Charles might without scruple speak at

length and at leisure of whatever matters had brought him there.

“Very well, then,” began the surgeon; “I am painfully conscious that

the facts which I am in a position to lay before you are very scanty and

unsatisfactory.”

Paul Harley nodded encouragingly.

“If this were not so,” he explained, “you would have no occasion

to apply to me, Sir Charles. It is my business to look for facts.

Naturally, I do not expect my clients to supply them.”

Sir Charles slowly nodded his head, and seemed in some measure to

recover confidence.

“Briefly, then,” he said, “I believe my life is in danger.”

“You mean that there is someone who desires your death?”

“I do.”

“H’m,” said Harley, replacing the tin in the cupboard and striking

a match. “Even if the facts are scanty, no doubt you have fairly

substantial grounds for such a suspicion?”

“I cannot say that they are substantial, Mr. Harley. They are rather

more circumstantial. Frankly, I have forced myself to come here, and now

that I have intruded upon your privacy, I realize my difficulties more

keenly than ever.”

The expression of embarrassment upon the speaker’s face had grown

intense; and now he paused, bending forward in his chair. He seemed in

his glance to appeal for patience on the part of his hearer, and Harley,

lighting his pipe, nodded in understanding fashion. He was the last man

in the world to jump to conclusions. He had learned by bitter experience

that lightly to dismiss such cases as this of Sir Charles as coming

within the province of delusion, was sometimes tantamount to refusing

aid to a man in deadly peril.

“You are naturally anxious for the particulars,” Sir Charles presently

resumed. “They bear, I regret to say, a close resemblance to the

symptoms of a well-known form of hallucination. In short, with one

exception, they may practically all be classed under the head of

surveillance.”

“Surveillance,” said Paul Harley. “You mean that you are more or less

constantly followed?”

“I do.”

“And what is your impression of this follower?”

“A very hazy one. To-night, as I came to your office, I have every

reason to believe that someone followed me in a taxicab.”

“You came in a car?”

“I did.”

“And a cab followed you the whole way?”

“Practically the whole way, except that as my chauffeur turned into

Chancery Lane, the cab stopped at the corner of Fleet Street.”

“Your idea is that your pursuer followed on foot from this point?”

“Such was my impression.”

“H’m, quite impossible. And is this sort of thing constant, Sir

Charles?”

“It has been for some time past.”

“Anything else?”

“One very notable thing, Mr. Harley. I was actually assaulted less than

a week ago within sight of my own house.”

“Indeed! Tell me of this.” Paul Harley became aware of an awakening

curiosity. Sir Charles Abingdon was not the type of man who is lightly

intimidated.

“I had been to visit a friend in the neighbourhood,” Sir Charles

continued, “whom I am at present attending professionally, although I am

actually retired. I was returning across the square, close to midnight,

when, fortunately for myself, I detected the sound of light, pattering

footsteps immediately behind me. The place was quite deserted at that

hour, and although I was so near home, the worst would have happened, I

fear, if my sense of hearing had been less acute. I turned in the very

instant that a man was about to spring upon me from behind. He was

holding in his hand what looked like a large silk handkerchief. This

encounter took place in the shadow of some trees, and beyond the fact

that my assailant was a small man, I could form no impression of his

identity.”

“What did you do?”

“I turned and struck out with my stick.”

“And then?”

“Then he made no attempt to contest the issue, but simply ran swiftly

off, always keeping in the shadows of the trees.”

“Very strange,” murmured Harley. “Do you think he had meant to drug

you?”

“Maybe,” replied Sir Charles. “The handkerchief was perhaps saturated

with some drug, or he may even have designed to attempt to strangle me.”

“And you formed absolutely no impression of the man?”

“None whatever, Mr. Harley. When you see the spot at which the encounter

took place, if you care to do so, you will recognize the difficulties.

It is perfectly dark there after nightfall.”

“H’m,” mused Harley. “A very alarming occurrence, Sir Charles. It must

have shaken you very badly. But we must not overlook the possibility

that this may have been an ordinary footpad.”

“His methods were scarcely those of a footpad,” murmured Sir Charles.

“I quite agree,” said Harley. “They were rather Oriental, if I may say

so.”

Sir Charles Abingdon started. “Oriental!” he whispered. “Yes, you are

right.”

“Does this suggest a train of thought?” prompted Harley.

Sir Charles Abingdon cleared his throat nervously. “It does, Mr.

Harley,” he admitted, “but a very confusing train of thought. It leads

me to a point which I must mention, but which concerns a very well-known

man. Before I proceed I should like to make it clear that I do not

believe for a moment that he is responsible for this unpleasant

business.”

Harley stared at him curiously. “Nevertheless,” he said, “there must be

some data in your possession which suggest to your mind that he has some

connection with it.”

“There are, Mr. Harley, and I should be deeply indebted if you could

visit my house this evening, when I could place this evidence, if

evidence it may be called, before you. I find myself in so delicate a

position. If you are free I should welcome your company at dinner.”

Paul Harley seemed to be reflecting.

“Of course, Sir Charles,” he said, presently, “your statement is very

interesting and curious, and I shall naturally make a point of going

fully into the matter. But before proceeding further there are two

questions I should like to ask you. The first is this: What is the name

of the ‘well-known’ man to whom you refer? And the second: If not he

then whom do you suspect of being behind all this?”

“The one matter is so hopelessly involved in the other,” he finally

replied, “that although I came here prepared as I thought with a

full statement of the case, I should welcome a further opportunity of

rearranging the facts before imparting them to you. One thing, however,

I have omitted to mention. It is, perhaps, of paramount importance.

There was a robbery at my house less than a week ago.”

“What! A robbery! Tell me: what was stolen?”

“Nothing of the slightest value, Mr. Harley, to any one but myself--or

so I should have supposed.” The speaker coughed nervously. “The thief

had gained admittance to my private study, where there are several

cases of Oriental jewellery and a number of pieces of valuable gold and

silverware, all antique. At what hour he came, how he gained admittance,

and how he retired, I cannot imagine. All the doors were locked as usual

in the morning and nothing was disturbed.”

“I don’t understand, then.”

“I chanced to have occasion to open my bureau which I invariably keep

locked. Immediately--immediately--I perceived that my papers were

disarranged. Close examination revealed the fact that a short manuscript

in my own hand, which had been placed in one of the pigeonholes, was

missing.”

“A manuscript,” murmured Harley. “Upon a technical subject?”

“Scarcely a technical subject, Mr. Harley. It was a brief account which

I had vaguely contemplated publishing in one of the reviews, a brief

account of a very extraordinary patient whom I once attended.”

“And had you written it recently?”

“No; some years ago. But I had recently added to it. I may say that it

was my purpose still further to add to it, and with this object I had

actually unlocked the bureau.”

“New facts respecting this patient had come into your possession?”

“They had.”

“Before the date of the attack upon you?”

“Before that date, yes.”

“And before surveillance of your movements began?”

“I believe so.”

“May I suggest that your patient and the ‘well-known man’ to whom you

referred are one and the same?”

“It is not so, Mr. Harley,” returned Sir Charles in a tired voice.

“Nothing so simple. I realize more than ever that I must arrange my

facts in some sort of historical order. Therefore I ask you again: will

you dine with me to-night?”

“With pleasure,” replied Harley, promptly. “I have no other engagement.”

That his ready acceptance had immensely relieved the troubled mind of

Sir Charles was evident enough. His visitor stood up. “I am not prone to

sickly fancies, Mr. Harley,” he said. “But a conviction has been growing

upon me for some time that I have incurred, how I cannot imagine, but

that nevertheless I have incurred powerful enmity. I trust our evening’s

counsel may enable you, with your highly specialized faculties, to

detect an explanation.”

And it was instructive to note how fluently he spoke now that he found

himself temporarily relieved of the necessity of confessing the source

of his mysterious fears.

CHAPTER II. THE SIXTH SENSE

Paul Harley stepped into his car in Chancery Lane. “Drive in the

direction of Hyde Park Corner,” he directed the chauffeur. “Go along the

Strand.”

Glancing neither right nor left, he entered the car, and presently they

were proceeding slowly with the stream of traffic in the Strand. “Pull

up at the Savoy,” he said suddenly through the tube.

The car slowed down in that little bay which contains the entrance to

the hotel, and Harley stared fixedly out of the rear window, observing

the occupants of all other cars and cabs which were following. For three

minutes or more he remained there watching. “Go on,” he directed.

Again they proceeded westward and, half-way along Piccadilly, “Stop at

the Ritz,” came the order.

The car pulled up before the colonnade and Harley, stepping out,

dismissed the man and entered the hotel, walked through to the side

entrance, and directed a porter to get him a taxicab. In this he

proceeded to the house of Sir Charles Abingdon. He had been seeking

to learn whether he was followed, but in none of the faces he had

scrutinized had he detected any interest in himself, so that his idea

that whoever was watching Sir Charles in all probability would have

transferred attention to himself remained no more than an idea. For all

he had gained by his tactics, Sir Charles’s theory might be no more than

a delusion after all.

The house of Sir Charles Abingdon was one of those small, discreet

establishments, the very neatness of whose appointments inspires respect

for the occupant. If anything had occurred during the journey to suggest

to Harley that Sir Charles was indeed under observation by a hidden

enemy, the suave British security and prosperity of his residence must

have destroyed the impression.

As the cab was driven away around the corner, Harley paused for a

moment, glancing about him to right and left and up at the neatly

curtained windows. In the interval which had elapsed since Sir Charles’s

departure from his office, he had had leisure to survey the outstanding

features of the story, and, discounting in his absence the pathetic

sincerity of the narrator, he had formed the opinion that there was

nothing in the account which was not susceptible of an ordinary prosaic

explanation.

Sir Charles’s hesitancy in regard to two of the questions asked had

contained a hint that they might involve intimate personal matters,

and Harley was prepared to learn that the source of the distinguished

surgeon’s dread lay in some unrevealed episode of the past. Beyond the

fact that Sir Charles was a widower, he knew little or nothing of

his private life; and he was far too experienced an investigator to

formulate theories until all the facts were in his possession. Therefore

it was with keen interest that he looked forward to the interview.

Familiarity with crime, in its many complexions, East and West, had

developed in Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was an evasive,

fickle thing, but was nevertheless the attribute which had made him

an investigator of genius. Often enough it failed him entirely. It had

failed him to-night--or else no one had followed him from Chancery Lane.

It had failed him earlier in the evening when, secretly, he had watched

from the office window Sir Charles’s car proceeding toward the Strand.

That odd, sudden chill, as of an abrupt lowering of the temperature,

which often advised him of the nearness of malignant activity, had not

been experienced.

Now, standing before Sir Charles’s house, he “sensed” the atmosphere

keenly--seeking for the note of danger.

There had been a thunder shower just before he had set out, and now,

although rain had ceased, the sky remained blackly overcast and a

curious, dull stillness was come. The air had a welcome freshness and

the glistening pavements looked delightfully cool after the parching

heat of the day. In the quiet square, no doubt, it was always restful

in contrast with the more busy highroads, and in the murmur of distant

traffic he found something very soothing. About him then were peace,

prosperity, and security.

Yet, as he stood there, waiting--it came to him: the note of danger.

Swiftly he looked to right and left, trying to penetrate the premature

dusk. The whole complexion of the matter changed. Some menace intangible

now, but which at any moment might become evident--lay near him. It was

sheer intuition, no doubt, but it convinced him.

A moment later he had rung the bell; and as a man opened the door,

showing a easy and well-lighted lobby within, the fear aura no longer

touched Paul Harley. Out from the doorway came hominess and that air

of security and peace which had seemed to characterize the house when

viewed from outside. The focus of menace, therefore, lay not inside

the house of Sir Charles but without. It was very curious. In the next

instant came a possible explanation.

“Mr. Paul Harley?” said the butler tentatively.

“Yes, I am he.”

“Sir Charles is expecting you, sir. He apologizes for not being in to

receive you, but he will only be absent a few minutes.”

“Sir Charles has been called out?” inquired Harley as he handed hat and

coat to the man.

“Yes, sir. He is attending Mr. Chester Wilson on the other side of the

square, and Mr. Wilson’s man rang up a few moments ago requesting Sir

Charles to step across.”

“I see,” murmured Harley, as the butler showed him into a small but

well-filled library on the left of the lobby.

Refreshments were set invitingly upon a table beside a deep lounge

chair. But Harley declined the man’s request to refresh himself while

waiting and began aimlessly to wander about the room, apparently

studying the titles of the works crowding the bookshelves. As a matter

of fact, he was endeavouring to arrange certain ideas in order, and if

he had been questioned on the subject it is improbable that he could

have mentioned the title of one book in the library.

His mental equipment was of a character too rarely met with in the

profession to which he belonged. While up to the very moment of reaching

Sir Charles’s house he had doubted the reality of the menace which

hung over this man, the note of danger which he had sensed at the very

threshold had convinced him, where more ordinary circumstantial evidence

might have left him in doubt.

It was perhaps pure imagination, but experience had taught him that it

was closely allied to clairvoyance.

Now upon his musing there suddenly intruded sounds of a muffled

altercation. That is to say, the speakers, who were evidently in the

lobby beyond the library door, spoke in low tones, perhaps in deference

to the presence of a visitor. Harley was only mildly interested, but

the voices had broken his train of thought, and when presently the door

opened to admit a very neat but rather grim-looking old lady he started,

then looked across at her with a smile.

Some of the grimness faded from the wrinkled old face, and the

housekeeper, for this her appearance proclaimed her to be, bowed in a

queer Victorian fashion which suggested that a curtsy might follow. One

did not follow, however. “I am sure I apologize, sir,” she said. “Benson

did not tell me you had arrived.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Harley, genially.

His smile held a hint of amusement, for in the comprehensive glance

which the old lady cast across the library, a glance keen to detect

disorder and from which no speck of dust could hope to conceal itself,

there remained a trace of that grimness which he had detected at the

moment of her entrance. In short, she was still bristling from a recent

encounter. So much so that detecting something sympathetic in Harley’s

smile she availed herself of the presence of a badly arranged vase of

flowers to linger and to air her grievances.

“Servants in these times,” she informed him, her fingers busily

rearranging the blooms, “are not what servants were in my young days.”

“Unfortunately, that is so,” Harley agreed.

The old lady tossed her head. “I do my best,” she continued, “but that

girl would not have stayed in the house for one week if I had had my

way. Miss Phil is altogether too soft-hearted. Thank goodness, she goes

to-morrow, though.”

“You don’t refer to Miss Phil?” said Harley, intentionally

misunderstanding.

“Gracious goodness, no!” exclaimed the housekeeper, and laughed with

simple glee at the joke. “I mean Jones, the new parlourmaid. When I say

new, they are all new, for none of them stay longer than three months.”

“Indeed,” smiled Harley, who perceived that the old lady was something

of a martinet.

“Indeed, they don’t. Think they are ladies nowadays. Four hours off has

that girl had to-day, although she was out on Wednesday. Then she has

the impudence to allow someone to ring her up here at the house; and

finally I discover her upsetting the table after Benson had laid it and

after I had rearranged it.”

She glanced indignantly in the direction of the lobby. “Perhaps one

day,” she concluded, pathetically, as she walked slowly from the room,

“we shall find a parlourmaid who is a parlourmaid. Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” said Harley, quietly amused to be made the recipient of

these domestic confidences.

He continued to smile for some time after the door had been closed. His

former train of ideas was utterly destroyed, but for this he was not

ungrateful to the housekeeper, since the outstanding disadvantage of

that strange gift resembling prescience was that it sometimes blunted

the purely analytical part of his mind when this should have been at its

keenest. He was now prepared to listen to what Sir Charles had to say

and to judge impartially of its evidential value.

Wandering from side to side of the library, he presently found himself

standing still before the mantelpiece and studying a photograph in

a silver frame which occupied the centre of the shelf. It was the

photograph of an unusually pretty girl; that is to say, of a girl whose

beauty was undeniable, but who belonged to a type widely removed from

that of the ordinary good-looking Englishwoman.

The outline of her face was soft and charming, and there was a

questioning look in her eyes which was alluring and challenging. Her

naive expression was palpably a pose, and her slightly parted lips

promised laughter. She possessed delightfully wavy hair and her neck and

one shoulder, which were bare, had a Grecian purity. Harley discovered

himself to be smiling at the naive lady of the photograph.

“Presumably ‘Miss Phil’,” he said aloud.

He removed his gaze with reluctance from the fascinating picture, and

dropping into the big lounge chair, he lighted a cigarette. He had just

placed the match in an ash tray when he heard Sir Charles’s voice in

the lobby, and a moment later Sir Charles himself came hurrying into

the library. His expression was so peculiar that Harley started up

immediately, perceiving that something unusual had happened.

“My dear Mr. Harley,” began Sir Charles, “in the first place pray accept

my apologies--”

“None are necessary,” Harley interrupted. “Your excellent housekeeper

has entertained me vastly.”

“Good, good,” muttered Sir Charles. “I am obliged to Mrs. Howett,” and

it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. “But I have

to relate a most inexplicable occurrence--inexplicable unless by some

divine accident the plan has been prevented from maturing.”

“What do you mean, Sir Charles?”

“I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the servant

of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I have been

attending.”

“So your butler informed me.”

“My dear sir,” cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes grew

almost wild, “no one in Wilson’s house knew anything about the matter!”

“What! It was a ruse?”

“Palpably a ruse to get me away from home.”

Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match, where,

smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the library.

Whether because of his words or because of the presence of the man

himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again touched Paul Harley.

“You saw or heard nothing on your way across the square to suggest that

any one having designs on your safety was watching you?”

“Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return journey,

of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Paul Harley, quietly.

Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the

working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was momentarily

at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was clamouring for

recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious voice whispered: “This

man is in danger; protect him.” What was the meaning of it all? He felt

that a clue lay somewhere outside the reach of his intelligence, and a

sort of anger possessed him because of his impotence to grasp it.

Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way which

he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery Lane. “In

any event,” said his host, “let us dine: for already I have kept you

waiting.”

Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the cosy

dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his glance

had met that of Sir Charles--a premonition that this man’s days

were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas, at first, the

atmosphere of Sir Charles Abingdon’s home had been laden with prosperous

security, now from every side, and even penetrating to the warmly

lighted dining room, came that chilling note of danger.

In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note that there were many

Indian curios in the place which could not well have failed to attract

the attention of a burglar. But that the person who had penetrated to

the house was no common burglar he was now assured and he required no

further evidence upon this point.

As he took his seat at the dining table he observed that Sir Charles’s

collection had overflowed even into this room. In the warm shadows about

him were pictures and ornaments, all of which came from, or had been

inspired by, the Far East.

In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration. The terror which had

come into Sir Charles’s life, the invisible menace which, swordlike,

hung over him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to the land of

temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the secret land which has

bred so many mysteries. Yes, he must look into the past, into the Indian

life of Sir Charles Abingdon, for the birth of this thing which now had

grown into a shadow almost tangible.

Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced and very

surly-looking maid, in whom Harley thought he recognized the

housekeeper’s bete noire.

When presently both servants had temporarily retired. “You see, Mr.

Harley,” began Sir Charles, glancing about his own room in a manner

almost furtive, “I realized to-day at your office that the history of

this dread which has come upon me perhaps went back so far that it was

almost impossible to acquaint you with it under the circumstances.”

“I quite understand.”

“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--”

He ceased abruptly, and ran to his host’s assistance, for the latter,

evidently enough, was in the throes of some sudden illness or seizure.

His fresh-coloured face was growing positively livid, and he plucked at

the edge of the table with twitching fingers. As Harley reached his side

he made a sudden effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp the

other’s shoulder.

“Benson!” cried Harley, loudly. “Quick! Your master is ill!”

There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown open.

“Too late,” whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to clutch

his throat as Benson hurried into the room.

“My God!” whispered Harley. “He is dying!”

Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was almost

past speech. He was glaring across the table as though he saw some

ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling suddenness he became as

a dead weight in Harley’s supporting grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in

agony from his lips:

“Fire-Tongue,” he said... “Nicol Brinn...”

Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.

“Sir Charles!” he kept muttering. “Sir Charles! What is the matter,

sir?”

A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in tottered Mrs. Howett,

the old housekeeper, with other servants peering over her shoulder into

that warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles Abingdon lay huddled

in his own chair--dead.

CHAPTER III. SHADOWS

“Had you reason to suspect any cardiac trouble, Doctor McMurdoch?” asked

Harley.

Doctor McMurdoch, a local practitioner who had been a friend of Sir

Charles Abingdon, shook his head slowly. He was a tall, preternaturally

thin Scotsman, clean-shaven, with shaggy dark brows and a most gloomy

expression in his deep-set eyes. While the presence of his sepulchral

figure seemed appropriate enough in that stricken house, Harley could

not help thinking that it must have been far from reassuring in a sick

room.

“I had never actually detected anything of the kind,” replied the

physician, and his deep voice was gloomily in keeping with his

personality. “I had observed a certain breathlessness at times, however.

No doubt it is one of those cases of unsuspected endocarditis. Acute.

I take it,” raising his shaggy brows interrogatively, “that nothing had

occurred to excite Sir Charles?”

“On the contrary,” replied Harley, “he was highly distressed about some

family trouble, the nature of which he was about to confide to me when

this sudden illness seized him.”

He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch, wondering how much he might hope to

learn from him respecting the affairs of Sir Charles. It seemed almost

impertinent at that hour to seek to pry into the dead man’s private

life.

To the quiet, book-lined apartment stole now and again little

significant sounds which told of the tragedy in the household. Sometimes

when a distant door was opened, it would be the sobs of a weeping woman,

for the poor old housekeeper had been quite prostrated by the blow. Or

ghostly movements would become audible from the room immediately over

the library--the room to which the dead man had been carried; muffled

footsteps, vague stirrings of furniture; each sound laden with its own

peculiar portent, awakening the imagination which all too readily filled

in the details of the scene above. Then, to spur Harley to action, came

the thought that Sir Charles Abingdon had appealed to him for aid. Did

his need terminate with his unexpected death or would the shadow under

which he had died extend now? Harley found himself staring across the

library at the photograph of Phil Abingdon. It was of her that Sir

Charles had been speaking when that mysterious seizure had tied his

tongue. That strange, fatal illness, mused Harley, all the more strange

in the case of a man supposedly in robust health--it almost seemed

like the working of a malignant will. For the revelation, whatever

its nature, had almost but not quite been made in Harley’s office that

evening. Something, some embarrassment or mental disability, had stopped

Sir Charles from completing his statement. Tonight death had stopped

him.

“Was he consulting you professionally, Mr. Harley?” asked the physician.

“He was,” replied Harley, continuing to stare fascinatedly at the

photograph on the mantelpiece. “I am informed,” said he, abruptly, “that

Miss Abingdon is out of town?”

Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy fashion. “She is staying in

Devonshire with poor Abingdon’s sister,” he answered. “I am wondering

how we are going to break the news to her.”

Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly been intimate with the

late Sir Charles, Harley determined to make use of this opportunity to

endeavour to fathom the mystery of the late surgeon’s fears. “You will

not misunderstand me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, “if I venture to ask

you one or two rather personal questions respecting Miss Abingdon?”

Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and looked gloomily at the

speaker. “Mr. Harley,” he replied, “I know you by repute for a man of

integrity. But before I answer your questions will you answer one of

mine?”

“Certainly.”

“Then my question is this: Does not your interest cease with the death

of your client?”

“Doctor McMurdoch,” said Harley, sternly, “you no doubt believe yourself

to be acting as a friend of this bereaved family. You regard me,

perhaps, as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity. On the contrary, I

find myself in a delicate and embarrassing situation. From Sir Charles’s

conversation I had gathered that he entertained certain fears on behalf

of his daughter.”

“Indeed,” said Doctor McMurdoch.

“If these fears were well grounded, the danger is not removed, but

merely increased by the death of Miss Abingdon’s natural protector.

I regret, sir, that I approached you for information, since you have

misjudged my motive. But far from my interest having ceased, it has now

as I see the matter become a sacred duty to learn what it was that Sir

Charles apprehended. This duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I propose to fulfil

with or without your assistance.”

“Oh,” said Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “I’m afraid I’ve offended you.

But I meant well, Mr. Harley.” A faint trace of human emotion showed

itself in his deep voice. “Charley Abingdon and I were students together

in Edinburgh,” he explained. “I was mayhap a little strange.”

His apology was so evidently sincere that Harley relented at once.

“Please say no more, Doctor McMurdoch,” he responded. “I fully

appreciate your feelings in the matter. At such a time a stranger

can only be an intruder; but”--he fixed his keen eyes upon the

physician--“there is more underlying all this than you suspect or could

readily believe. You will live to know that I have spoken the truth.”

“I know it now,” declared the Scotsman, solemnly. “Abingdon was always

eccentric, but he didn’t know the meaning of fear.”

“Once that may have been true,” replied Harley. “But a great fear was

upon him when he came to me, Doctor McMurdoch, and if it is humanly

possible I am going to discover its cause.”

“Go ahead,” said Doctor McMurdoch and, turning to the side table, he

poured out two liberal portions of whiskey. “If there’s anything I can

do to help, count me at your service. You tell me he had fears about

little Phil?”

“He had,” answered Harley, “and it is maddening to think that he died

before he could acquaint me with their nature. But I have hopes that

you can help me in this. For instance”--again he fixed his gaze upon

the gloomy face of the physician--“who is the distinguished Oriental

gentleman with whom Sir Charles had recently become acquainted?”

Doctor McMurdoch’s expression remained utterly blank, and he slowly

shook his head. “I haven’t an idea in the world,” he declared. “A

patient, perhaps?”

“Possibly,” said Harley, conscious of some disappointment; “yet from the

way he spoke of him I scarcely think that he was a patient. Surely Sir

Charles, having resided so long in India, numbered several Orientals

among his acquaintances if not among his friends?”

“None ever came to his home,” replied Doctor McMurdoch. “He had all the

Anglo-Indian’s prejudice against men of colour.” He rested his massive

chin in his hand and stared down reflectively at the carpet.

“Then you have no suggestion to offer in regard to this person?”

“None. Did he tell you nothing further about him?”

“Unfortunately, nothing. In the next place, Doctor McMurdoch, are you

aware of any difference of opinion which had arisen latterly between Sir

Charles and his daughter?”

“Difference of opinion!” replied Doctor McMurdoch, raising his brows

ironically. “There would always be difference of opinion between little

Phil and any man who cared for her. But out-and-out quarrel--no!”

Again Harley found himself at a deadlock, and it was with scanty hope

of success that he put his third question to the gloomy Scot. “Was Sir

Charles a friend of Mr. Nicol Brinn?” he asked.

“Nicol Brinn?” echoed the physician. He looked perplexed. “You mean the

American millionaire? I believe they were acquainted. Abingdon knew most

of the extraordinary people in London; and if half one hears is true

Nicol Brinn is as mad as a hatter. But they were not in any sense

friends as far as I know.” He was watching Harley curiously. “Why do you

ask that question?”

“I will tell you in a moment,” said Harley, rapidly, “but I have one

more question to put to you first. Does the term Fire-Tongue convey

anything to your mind?”

Doctor McMurdoch’s eyebrows shot upward most amazingly. “I won’t insult

you by supposing that you have chosen such a time for joking,” he said,

dourly. “But if your third question surprised me, I must say that your

fourth sounds simply daft.”

“It must,” agreed Harley, and his manner was almost fierce; “but when

I tell you why I ask these two questions--and I only do so on the

understanding that my words are to be treated in the strictest

confidence--you may regard the matter in a new light. ‘Nicol Brinn’ and

‘Fire-Tongue’ were the last words which Sir Charles Abingdon uttered.”

“What!” cried Doctor McMurdoch, displaying a sudden surprising energy.

“What?”

“I solemnly assure you,” declared Harley, “that such is the case.

Benson, the butler, also overheard them.”

Doctor McMurdoch relapsed once more into gloom, gazing at the whiskey in

the glass which he held in his hand and slowly shaking his head. “Poor

old Charley Abingdon,” he murmured. “It’s plain to me, Mr. Harley, that

his mind was wandering. May not we find here an explanation, too, of

this idea of his that some danger overhung Phil? You didn’t chance to

notice, I suppose, whether he had a temperature?”

“I did not,” replied Harley, smiling slightly. But the smile quickly

left his face, which became again grim and stern.

A short silence ensued, during which Doctor McMurdoch sat staring

moodily down at the carpet and Harley slowly paced up and down the room;

then:

“In view of the fact,” he said, suddenly, “that Sir Charles clearly

apprehended an attempt upon his life, are you satisfied professionally

that death was due to natural causes?”

“Perfectly satisfied,” replied the physician, looking up with a start:

“perfectly satisfied. It was unexpected, of course, but such cases are

by no means unusual. He was formerly a keen athlete, remember. ’Tis

often so. Surely you don’t suspect foul play? I understood you to mean

that his apprehensions were on behalf of Phil.”

Paul Harley stood still, staring meditatively in the other’s direction.

“There is not a scrap of evidence to support such a theory,” he

admitted, “but if you knew of the existence of any poisonous agent which

would produce effects simulating these familiar symptoms, I should be

tempted to take certain steps.”

“If you are talking about poisons,” said the physician, a rather

startled look appearing upon his face, “there are several I might

mention; but the idea seems preposterous to me. Why should any one want

to harm Charley Abingdon? When could poison have been administered and

by whom?”

“When, indeed?” murmured Harley. “Yet I am not satisfied.”

“You’re not hinting at--suicide?”

“Emphatically no.”

“What had he eaten?”

“Nothing but soup, except that he drank a portion of a glass of water. I

am wondering if he took anything at Mr. Wilson’s house.” He stared hard

at Doctor McMurdoch. “It may surprise you to learn that I have already

taken steps to have the remains of the soup from Sir Charles’s plate

examined, as well as the water in the glass. I now propose to call upon

Mr. Wilson in order that I may complete this line of enquiry.”

“I sympathize with your suspicions, Mr. Harley,” said the physician

dourly, “but you are wasting your time.” A touch of the old acidity

crept back into his manner. “My certificate will be ‘syncope due to

unusual excitement’; and I shall stand by it.”

“You are quite entitled to your own opinion,” Harley conceded, “which if

I were in your place would be my own. But what do you make of the fact

that Sir Charles received a bogus telephone message some ten minutes

before my arrival, as a result of which he visited Mr. Wilson’s house?”

“But he’s attending Wilson,” protested the physician.

“Nevertheless, no one there had telephoned. It was a ruse. I don’t

assume for a moment that this ruse was purposeless.”

Doctor McMurdoch was now staring hard at the speaker.

“You may also know,” Harley continued, “that there was an attempted

burglary here less than a week ago.”

“I know that,” admitted the other, “but it counts for little. There have

been several burglaries in the neighbourhood of late.”

Harley perceived that Doctor McMurdoch was one of those characters, not

uncommon north of the Tweed, who, if slow in forming an opinion, once

having done so cling to it as tightly as any barnacle.

“You may be right and I may be wrong,” Harley admitted, “but while your

professional business with Sir Charles unfortunately is ended, mine is

only beginning. May I count upon you to advise me of Miss Abingdon’s

return? I particularly wish to see her, and I should prefer to meet

her in the capacity of a friend rather than in that of a professional

investigator.”

“At the earliest moment that I can decently arrange a meeting,” replied

Doctor McMurdoch, “I will communicate with you, Mr. Harley. I am just

cudgelling my brains at the moment to think how the news is to be broken

to her. Poor little Phil! He was all she had.”

“I wish I could help you,” declared Harley with sincerity, “but in the

circumstances any suggestion of mine would be mere impertinence.” He

held out his hand to the doctor.

“Good-night,” said the latter, gripping it heartily. “If there is any

mystery surrounding poor Abingdon’s death, I believe you are the man to

clear it up. But, frankly, it was his heart. I believe he had a touch of

the sun once in India. Who knows? His idea that some danger threatened

him or threatened Phil may have been merely--” He tapped his brow

significantly.

“But in the whole of your knowledge of Sir Charles,” cried Harley,

exhibiting a certain irritation, “have you ever known him to suffer from

delusions of that kind or any other?”

“Never,” replied the physician, firmly; “but once a man has had the sun

one cannot tell.”

“Ah!” said Harley. “Good-night, Doctor McMurdoch.”

When presently he left the house, carrying a brown leather bag which he

had borrowed from the butler, he knew that rightly or wrongly his own

opinion remained unchanged in spite of the stubborn opposition of the

Scottish physician. The bogus message remained to be explained, and the

assault in the square, as did the purpose of the burglar to whom gold

and silver plate made no appeal. More important even than these points

were the dead man’s extraordinary words: “Fire-Tongue”--“Nicol Brinn.”

Finally and conclusively, he had detected the note of danger outside and

inside the house; and now as he began to cross the square it touched him

again intimately.

He looked up at the darkened sky. A black cloud was moving slowly

overhead, high above the roof of the late Sir Charles Abingdon; and

as he watched its stealthy approach it seemed to Paul Harley to be the

symbol of that dread in which latterly Sir Charles’s life had lain,

beneath which he had died, and which now was stretching out, mysterious

and menacing, over himself.

CHAPTER IV. INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN

At about nine o’clock on the same evening, a man stood at a large window

which overlooked Piccadilly and the Green Park. The room to which the

window belonged was justly considered one of the notable sights of

London and doubtless would have received suitable mention in the “Blue

Guide” had the room been accessible to the general public. It was,

on the contrary, accessible only to the personal friends of Mr. Nicol

Brinn. As Mr. Nicol Brinn had a rarely critical taste in friendship,

none but a fortunate few had seen the long room with its two large

windows overlooking Piccadilly.

The man at the window was interested in a car which, approaching from

the direction of the Circus, had slowed down immediately opposite and

now was being turned, the chauffeur’s apparent intention being to pull

up at the door below. He had seen the face of the occupant and had

recognized it even from that elevation. He was interested; and since

only unusual things aroused any semblance of interest in the man who now

stood at the window, one might have surmised that there was something

unusual about the present visitor, or in his having decided to call at

those chambers; and that such was indeed his purpose an upward glance

which he cast in the direction of the balcony sufficiently proved.

The watcher, who had been standing in a dark recess formed by the

presence of heavy velvet curtains draped before the window, now opened

the curtains and stepped into the lighted room. He was a tall, lean man

having straight, jet-black hair, a sallow complexion, and the features

of a Sioux. A long black cigar protruded aggressively from the left

corner of his mouth. His hands were locked behind him and his large and

quite expressionless blue eyes stared straight across the room at the

closed door with a dreamy and vacant regard. His dinner jacket fitted

him so tightly that it might have been expected at any moment to split

at the seams. As if to precipitate the catastrophe, he wore it buttoned.

There came a rap at the door.

“In!” said the tall man.

The door opened silently and a manservant appeared. He was spotlessly

neat and wore his light hair cropped close to the skull. His

fresh-coloured face was quite as expressionless as that of his master;

his glance possessed no meaning. Crossing to the window, he extended a

small salver upon which lay a visiting card.

“In!” repeated the tall man, looking down at the card.

His servant silently retired, and following a short interval rapped

again upon the door, opened it, and standing just inside the room

announced: “Mr. Paul Harley.”

The door being quietly closed behind him, Paul Harley stood staring

across the room at Nicol Brinn. At this moment the contrast between

the types was one to have fascinated a psychologist. About Paul Harley,

eagerly alert, there was something essentially British. Nicol Brinn,

without being typical, was nevertheless distinctly a product of the

United States. Yet, despite the stoic mask worn by Mr. Brinn, whose

lack-lustre eyes were so unlike the bright gray eyes of his visitor,

there existed, if not a physical, a certain spiritual affinity between

the two; both were men of action.

Harley, after that one comprehensive glance, the photographic glance of

a trained observer, stepped forward impulsively, hand outstretched. “Mr.

Brinn,” he said, “we have never met before, and it was good of you to

wait in for me. I hope my telephone message has not interfered with your

plans for the evening?”

Nicol Brinn, without change of pose, no line of the impassive face

altering, shot out a large, muscular hand, seized that of Paul Harley

in a tremendous grip, and almost instantly put his hand behind his back

again. “Had no plans,” he replied, in a high, monotonous voice; “I was

bored stiff. Take the armchair.”

Paul Harley sat down, but in the restless manner of one who has urgent

business in hand and who is impatient of delay. Mr. Brinn stooped to a

coffee table which stood upon the rug before the large open fireplace.

“I am going to offer you a cocktail,” he said.

“I shall accept your offer,” returned Harley, smiling. “The ‘N. B.

cocktail’ has a reputation which extends throughout the clubs of the

world.”

Nicol Brinn, exhibiting the swift adroitness of that human dodo, the

New York bartender, mixed the drinks. Paul Harley watched him, meanwhile

drumming his fingers restlessly upon the chair arm.

“Here’s success,” he said, “to my mission.”

It was an odd toast, but Mr. Brinn merely nodded and drank in silence.

Paul Harley set his glass down and glanced about the singular apartment

of which he had often heard and which no man could ever tire of

examining.

In this room the poles met, and the most remote civilizations of the

world rubbed shoulders with modernity. Here, encased, were a family of

snow-white ermine from Alaska and a pair of black Manchurian leopards.

A flying lemur from the Pelews contemplated swooping upon the head of

a huge tigress which glared with glassy eyes across the place at the

snarling muzzle of a polar bear. Mycenaean vases and gold death masks

stood upon the same shelf as Venetian goblets, and the mummy of an

Egyptian priestess of the thirteenth dynasty occupied a sarcophagus upon

the top of which rested a basrelief found in one of the shrines of the

Syrian fish goddess Derceto, at Ascalon.

Arrowheads of the Stone Age and medieval rapiers were ranged alongside

some of the latest examples of the gunsmith’s art. There were elephants’

tusks and Mexican skulls; a stone jar of water from the well of Zem-Zem,

and an ivory crucifix which had belonged to Torquemada. A mat of human

hair from Borneo overlay a historical and unique rug woven in Ispahan

and entirely composed of fragments of Holy Carpets from the Kaaba at

Mecca.

“I take it,” said Mr. Brinn, suddenly, “that you are up against a stiff

proposition.”

Paul Harley, accepting a cigarette from an ebony box (once the property

of Henry VIII) which the speaker had pushed across the coffee table in

his direction, stared up curiously into the sallow, aquiline face. “You

are right. But how did you know?”

“You look that way. Also--you were followed. Somebody knows you’ve come

here.”

Harley leaned forward, resting one hand upon the table. “I know I was

followed,” he said, sternly. “I was followed because I have entered

upon the biggest case of my career.” He paused and smiled in a very grim

fashion. “A suspicion begins to dawn upon my mind that if I fail it will

also be my last case. You understand me?”

“I understand absolutely,” replied Nicol Brinn. “These are dull days.

It’s meat and drink to me to smell big danger.”

Paul Harley lighted a cigarette and watched the speaker closely the

while. His expression, as he did so, was an odd one. Two courses were

open to him, and he was mentally debating their respective advantages.

“I have come to you to-night, Mr. Brinn,” he said finally, “to ask you a

certain question. Unless the theory upon which I am working is entirely

wrong, then, supposing that you are in a position to answer my question

I am logically compelled to suppose, also, that you stand in peril of

your life.”

“Good,” said Mr. Brinn. “I was getting sluggish.” In three long strides

he crossed the room and locked the door. “I don’t doubt Hoskins’s

honesty,” he explained, reading the inquiry in Harley’s eyes, “but an A1

intelligence doesn’t fold dress pants at thirty-nine.”

Only one very intimate with the taciturn speaker could have perceived

any evidence of interest in that imperturbable character. But Nicol

Brinn took his cheroot between his fingers, quickly placed a cone of ash

in a little silver tray (the work of Benvenuto Cellini), and replaced

the cheroot not in the left but in the right corner of his mouth. He was

excited.

“You are out after one of the big heads of the crook world,” he said.

“He knows it and he’s trailing you. My luck’s turned. How can I help?”

Harley stood up, facing Mr. Brinn. “He knows it, as you say,” he

replied, “and I hold my life in my hands. But from your answer to the

question which I have come here to-night to ask you, I shall conclude

whether or not your danger at the moment is greater than mine.”

“Good,” said Nicol Brinn.

In that unique room, at once library and museum, amid relics of a

hundred ages, spoil of the chase, the excavator, and the scholar, these

two faced each other; and despite the peaceful quiet of the apartment

up to which as a soothing murmur stole the homely sounds of Piccadilly,

each saw in the other’s eyes recognition of a deadly peril. It was a

queer, memorable moment.

“My question is simple but strange,” said Paul Harley. “It is this: What

do you know of ‘Fire-Tongue’?”

CHAPTER V. THE GATES OF HELL

If Paul Harley had counted upon the word “Fire-Tongue” to have a

dramatic effect upon Nicol Brinn, he was not disappointed. It was a word

which must have conveyed little or nothing to the multitude and which

might have been pronounced without perceptible effect at any public

meeting in the land. But Mr. Brinn, impassive though his expression

remained, could not conceal the emotion which he experienced at the

sound of it. His gaunt face seemed to grow more angular and his eyes to

become even less lustrous.

“Fire-Tongue!” he said, tensely, following a short silence. “For God’s

sake, when did you hear that word?”

“I heard it,” replied Harley, slowly, “to-night.” He fixed his gaze

intently upon the sallow face of the American. “It was spoken by Sir

Charles Abingdon.”

Closely as he watched Nicol Brinn while pronouncing this name he could

not detect the slightest change of expression in the stoic features.

“Sir Charles Abingdon,” echoed Brinn; “and in what way is it connected

with your case?”

“In this way,” answered Harley. “It was spoken by Sir Charles a few

moments before he died.”

Nicol Brinn’s drooping lids flickered rapidly. “Before he died! Then Sir

Charles Abingdon is dead! When did he die?”

“He died to-night and the last words that he uttered were

‘Fire-Tongue’--” He paused, never for a moment removing that fixed gaze

from the other’s face.

“Go on,” prompted Mr. Brinn.

“And ‘Nicol Brinn.’”

Nicol Brinn stood still as a carven man. Indeed, only by an added

rigidity in his pose did he reward Paul Harley’s intense scrutiny. A

silence charged with drama was finally broken by the American. “Mr.

Harley,” he said, “you told me that you were up against the big

proposition of your career. You are right.”

With that he sat down in an armchair and, resting his chin in his hand,

gazed fixedly into the empty grate. His pose was that of a man who is

suddenly called upon to review the course of his life and upon whose

decision respecting the future that life may depend. Paul Harley watched

him in silence.

“Give me the whole story,” said Mr. Brinn, “right from the beginning.”

He looked up. “Do you know what you have done to-night, Mr. Harley?”

Paul Harley shook his head. Swiftly, like the touch of an icy finger,

that warning note of danger had reached him again.

“I’ll tell you,” continued Brinn. “You have opened the gates of hell!”

Not another word did he speak while Paul Harley, pacing slowly up and

down before the hearth, gave him a plain account of the case, omitting

all reference to his personal suspicions and to the measures which he

had taken to confirm them.

He laid his cards upon the table deliberately. Whether Sir Charles

Abingdon had uttered the name of Nicol Brinn as that of one whose aid

should be sought or as a warning, he had yet to learn. And by this

apparent frankness he hoped to achieve his object. That the celebrated

American was in any way concerned in the menace which had overhung Sir

Charles he was not prepared to believe. But he awaited with curiosity

that explanation which Nicol Brinn must feel called upon to offer.

“You think he was murdered?” said Brinn in his high, toneless voice.

“I have formed no definite opinion. What is your own?”

“I may not look it,” replied Brinn, “but at this present moment I am the

most hopelessly puzzled and badly frightened man in London.”

“Frightened?” asked Harley, curiously.

“I said frightened, I also said puzzled; and I am far too puzzled to

be able to express any opinion respecting the death of Sir Charles

Abingdon. When I tell you all I know of him you will wonder as much as I

do, Mr. Harley, why my name should have been the last to pass his lips.”

He half turned in the big chair to face his visitor, who now was

standing before the fireplace staring down at him.

“One day last month,” he resumed, “I got out of my car in a big hurry at

the top of the Haymarket. A fool on a motorcycle passed between the

car and the sidewalk just as I stepped down, and I knew nothing further

until I woke up in a drug store close by, feeling very dazed and with

my coat in tatters and my left arm numbed from the elbow. A man was

standing watching me, and presently when I had pulled round he gave me

his card.

“He was Sir Charles Abingdon, who had been passing at the time of the

accident. That was how I met him, and as there was nothing seriously

wrong with me I saw him no more professionally. But he dined with me a

week later and I had lunch at his club about a fortnight ago.”

He looked up at Harley. “On my solemn word of honour,” he said, “that’s

all I know about Sir Charles Abingdon.”

Paul Harley returned the other’s fixed stare. “I don’t doubt your

assurance on the point, Mr. Brinn,” he acknowledged. “I can well

understand that you must be badly puzzled; but I would remind you of

your statement that you were also frightened. Why?”

Nicol Brinn glanced rapidly about his own luxurious room in an oddly

apprehensive manner. “I said that,” he declared, “and I meant it.”

“Then I can only suppose,” resumed Harley, deliberately, “that the cause

of your fear lies in the term, ‘Fire-Tongue’?”

Brinn again rested his chin in his hand, staring fixedly into the grate.

“And possibly,” went on the remorseless voice, “you can explain the

significance of that term?”

Nicol Brinn remained silent--but with one foot he was slowly tapping the

edge of the fender.

“Mr. Harley,” he began, abruptly, “you have been perfectly frank with me

and in return I wish to be as frank with you as I can be. I am face to

face with a thing that has haunted me for seven years, and every step I

take from now onward has to be considered carefully, for any step might

be my last. And that’s not the worst of the matter. I will risk one

of those steps here and now. You ask me to explain the significance of

Fire-Tongue” (there was a perceptible pause before he pronounced the

word, which Harley duly noticed). “I am going to tell you that Sir

Charles Abingdon, when I lunched with him at his club, asked me

precisely the same thing.”

“What! He asked you that so long as two weeks ago?”

“He did.”

“And what reason did he give for his inquiry?”

Nicol Brinn began to tap the fender again with his foot. “Let me think,”

he replied. “I recognize that you must regard my reticence as peculiar,

Mr. Harley, but if ever a man had reason to look before he leaped, I am

that man.”

Silence fell again, and Paul Harley, staring down at Nicol Brinn,

realized that this indeed was the most hopelessly mystifying case which

fate had ever thrown in his way. This millionaire scholar and traveller,

whose figure was as familiar in remote cities of the world as it was

familiar in New York, in Paris, and in London, could not conceivably be

associated with any criminal organization. Yet his hesitancy was indeed

difficult to explain, and because it seemed to Harley that the cloud

which had stolen out across the house of Sir Charles Abingdon now hung

threateningly over those very chambers, he merely waited and wondered.

“He referred to an experience which had befallen him in India,” came

Nicol Brinn’s belated reply.

“In India? May I ask you to recount that experience?”

“Mr. Harley,” replied Brinn, suddenly standing up, “I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I have said so. But I’d give a lot more than you might believe to know

that Abingdon had told you the story which he told me.”

“You are not helping, Mr. Brinn,” said Harley, sternly. “I believe and

I think that you share my belief that Sir Charles Abingdon did not die

from natural causes. You are repressing valuable evidence. Allow me

to remind you that if anything should come to light necessitating a

post-mortem examination of the body, you will be forced to divulge in a

court of justice the facts which you refuse to divulge to me.”

“I know it,” said Brinn, shortly.

He shot out one long arm and grasped Harley’s shoulder as in a vice.

“I’m counted a wealthy man,” he continued, “but I’d give every cent I

possess to see ‘paid’ put to the bill of a certain person. Listen.

You don’t think I was in any way concerned in the death of Sir Charles

Abingdon? It isn’t thinkable. But you do think I’m in possession of

facts which would help you find out who is. You’re right.”

“Good God!” cried Harley. “Yet you remain silent!”

“Not so loud--not so loud!” implored Brinn, repeating that odd, almost

furtive glance around. “Mr. Harley--you know me. You’ve heard of me and

now you’ve met me. You know my place in the world. Do you believe me

when I say that from this moment onward I don’t trust my own servants?

Nor my own friends?” He removed his grip from Harley’s shoulder.

“Inanimate things look like enemies. That mummy over yonder may have

ears!”

“I’m afraid I don’t altogether understand you.”

“See here!”

Nicol Brinn crossed to a bureau, unlocked it, and while Harley watched

him curiously, sought among a number of press cuttings. Presently

he found the cutting for which he was looking. “This was said,” he

explained, handing the slip to Harley, “at the Players’ Club in New

York, after a big dinner in pre-dry days. It was said in confidence.

But some disguised reporter had got in and it came out in print next

morning. Read it.”

Paul Harley accepted the cutting and read the following:

NICOL BRINN’S SECRET AMBITIONS

MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN WHO WANTS TO SHOOT

NIAGARA!

Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati, who is at present in New York, opened his

heart to members of the Players’ Club last night. Our prominent citizen,

responding to a toast, “the distinguished visitor,” said:

“I’d like to live through months of midnight frozen in among the polar

ice; I’d like to cross Africa from east to west and get lost in the

middle. I’d like to have a Montana sheriff’s posse on my heels for horse

stealing, and I’ve prayed to be wrecked on a desert island like Robinson

Crusoe to see if I am man enough to live it out. I want to stand my

trial for murder and defend my own case, and I want to be found by the

eunuchs in the harem of the Shah. I want to dive for pearls and scale

the Matterhorn. I want to know where the tunnel leads to--the tunnel

down under the Great Pyramid of Gizeh--and I’d love to shoot Niagara

Falls in a barrel.”

“It sounds characteristic,” murmured Harley, laying the slip on the

coffee table.

“It’s true!” declared Brinn. “I said it and I meant it. I’m a glutton

for danger, Mr. Harley, and I’m going to tell you why. Something

happened to me seven years ago--”

“In India?”

“In India. Correct. Something happened to me, sir, which just took

the sunshine out of life. At the time I didn’t know all it meant. I’ve

learned since. For seven years I have been flirting with death and

hoping to fall!”

Harley stared at him uncomprehendingly. “More than ever I fail to

understand.”

“I can only ask you to be patient, Mr. Harley. Time is a wonderful

doctor, and I don’t say that in seven years the old wound hasn’t healed

a bit. But to-night you have, unknowingly, undone all that time had

done. I’m a man that has been down into hell. I bought myself out. I

thought I knew where the pit was located. I thought I was well away from

it, Mr. Harley, and you have told me something tonight which makes me

think that it isn’t where I supposed at all, but hidden down here right

under our feet in London. And we’re both standing on the edge!”

That Nicol Brinn was deeply moved no student of humanity could have

doubted. From beneath the stoic’s cloak another than the dare-devil

millionaire whose crazy exploits were notorious had looked out.

Persistently the note of danger came to Paul Harley. Those luxurious

Piccadilly chambers were a focus upon which some malignant will was

concentrated. He became conscious of anger. It was the anger of a just

man who finds himself impotent--the rage of Prometheus bound.

“Mr. Brinn!” he cried, “I accept unreservedly all that you have told me.

Its real significance I do not and cannot grasp. But my theory that Sir

Charles Abingdon was done to death has become a conviction. That a like

fate threatens yourself and possibly myself I begin to believe.” He

looked almost fiercely into the other’s dull eyes. “My reputation

east and west is that of a white man. Mr. Brinn--I ask you for your

confidence.”

Nicol Brinn dropped his chin into his hand and resumed that unseeing

stare into the open grate. Paul Harley watched him intently.

“There isn’t any one I would rather confide in,” confessed the American.

“We are linked by a common danger. But”--he looked up--“I must ask you

again to be patient. Give me time to think--to make plans. For your own

part--be cautious. You witnessed the death of Sir Charles Abingdon. You

don’t think and perhaps I don’t think that it was natural; but whatever

steps you may have taken to confirm your theories, I dare not hope that

you will ever discover even a ghost of a clue. I simply warn you, Mr.

Harley. You may go the same way. So may I. Others have travelled that

road before poor Abingdon.”

He suddenly stood up, all at once exhibiting to his watchful visitor

that tremendous nervous energy which underlay his impassive manner.

“Good God!” he said, in a cold, even voice. “To think that it is here in

London. What does it mean?”

He ceased speaking abruptly, and stood with his elbow resting on a

corner of the mantelpiece.

“You speak of it being here,” prompted Harley. “Is it consistent with

your mysterious difficulties to inform me to what you refer?”

Nicol Brinn glanced aside at him. “If I informed you of that,” he

answered, “you would know all you want to know. But neither you nor I

would live to use the knowledge. Give me time. Let me think.”

Silence fell in the big room, Nicol Brinn staring down vacantly into the

empty fireplace, Paul Harley standing watching him in a state of almost

stupefied mystification. Muffled to a soothing murmur the sounds of

Piccadilly penetrated to that curtained chamber which held so many

records of the troubled past and which seemed to be charged with shadowy

portents of the future.

Something struck with a dull thud upon a windowpane--once--twice. There

followed a faint, sibilant sound.

Paul Harley started and the stoical Nicol Brinn turned rapidly and

glanced across the room.

“What was that?” asked Harley.

“I expect--it was an owl,” answered Brinn. “We sometimes get them over

from the Green Park.”

His high voice sounded unemotional as ever. But it seemed to Paul Harley

that his face, dimly illuminated by the upcast light from the lamp upon

the coffee table, had paled, had become gaunt.

CHAPTER VI. PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES

On the following afternoon Paul Harley was restlessly pacing his private

office when Innes came in with a letter which had been delivered by

hand. Harley took it eagerly and tore open the envelope. A look of

expectancy faded from his eager face almost in the moment that it

appeared there. “No luck, Innes,” he said, gloomily. “Merton reports

that there is no trace of any dangerous foreign body in the liquids

analyzed.”

He dropped the analyst’s report into a wastebasket and resumed his

restless promenade. Innes, who could see that his principal wanted

to talk, waited. For it was Paul Harley’s custom, when the clue to a

labyrinth evaded him, to outline his difficulties to his confidential

secretary, and by the mere exercise of verbal construction Harley would

often detect the weak spot in his reasoning. This stage come to, he

would dictate a carefully worded statement of the case to date and thus

familiarize himself with its complexities.

“You see, Innes,” he began, suddenly, “Sir Charles had taken no

refreshment of any kind at Mr. Wilson’s house nor before leaving his

own. Neither had he smoked. No one had approached him. Therefore, if he

was poisoned, he was poisoned at his own table. Since he was never out

of my observation from the moment of entering the library up to that of

his death, we are reduced to the only two possible mediums--the soup or

the water. He had touched nothing else.”

“No wine?”

“Wine was on the table but none had been poured out. Let us see what

evidence, capable of being put into writing, exists to support my theory

that Sir Charles was poisoned. In the first place, he clearly went in

fear of some such death. It was because of this that he consulted me.

What was the origin of his fear? Something associated with the term

Fire-Tongue. So much is clear from Sir Charles’s dying words, and his

questioning Nicol Brinn on the point some weeks earlier.

“He was afraid, then, of something or someone linked in his mind with

the word Fire-Tongue. What do we know about Fire-Tongue? One thing only:

that it had to do with some episode which took place in India. This item

we owe to Nicol Brinn.

“Very well. Sir Charles believed himself to be in danger from some thing

or person unknown, associated with India and with the term Fire-Tongue.

What else? His house was entered during the night under circumstances

suggesting that burglary was not the object of the entrance. And next?

He was assaulted, with murderous intent. Thirdly, he believed himself to

be subjected to constant surveillance. Was this a delusion? It was

not. After failing several times I myself detected someone dogging my

movements last night at the moment I entered Nicol Brinn’s chambers.

Nicol Brinn also saw this person.

“In short, Sir Charles was, beyond doubt, at the time of his death,

receiving close attention from some mysterious person or persons

the object of which he believed to be his death. Have I gone beyond

established facts, Innes, thus far?”

“No, Mr. Harley. So far you are on solid ground.”

“Good. Leaving out of the question those points which we hope to clear

up when the evidence of Miss Abingdon becomes available--how did Sir

Charles learn that Nicol Brinn knew the meaning of Fire-Tongue?”

“He may have heard something to that effect in India.”

“If this were so he would scarcely have awaited a chance encounter to

prosecute his inquiries, since Nicol Brinn is a well-known figure in

London and Sir Charles had been home for several years.”

“Mr. Brinn may have said something after the accident and before he was

in full possession of his senses which gave Sir Charles a clue.”

“He did not, Innes. I called at the druggist’s establishment this

morning. They recalled the incident, of course. Mr. Brinn never uttered

a word until, opening his eyes, he said: ‘Hello! Am I much damaged?’”

Innes smiled discreetly. “A remarkable character, Mr. Harley,” he said.

“Your biggest difficulty at the moment is to fit Mr. Nicol Brinn into

the scheme.”

“He won’t fit at all, Innes! We come to the final and conclusive item of

evidence substantiating my theory of Sir Charles’s murder: Nicol Brinn

believes he was murdered. Nicol Brinn has known others, in his own

words, ‘to go the same way.’ Yet Nicol Brinn, a millionaire, a scholar,

a sportsman, and a gentleman, refuses to open his mouth.”

“He is afraid of something.”

“He is afraid of Fire-Tongue--whatever Fire-Tongue may be! I never saw a

man of proved courage more afraid in my life. He prefers to court arrest

for complicity in a murder rather than tell what he knows!”

“It’s unbelievable.”

“It would be, Innes, if Nicol Brinn’s fears were personal.”

Paul Harley checked his steps in front of the watchful secretary and

gazed keenly into his eyes.

“Death has no terrors for Nicol Brinn,” he said slowly. “All his life

he has toyed with danger. He admitted to me that during the past seven

years he had courted death. Isn’t it plain enough, Innes? If ever a man

possessed all that the world had to offer, Nicol Brinn is that man. In

such a case and in such circumstances what do we look for?”

Innes shook his head.

“We look for the woman!” snapped Paul Harley.

There came a rap at the door and Miss Smith, the typist, entered. “Miss

Phil Abingdon and Doctor McMurdoch,” she said.

“Good heavens!” muttered Harley. “So soon? Why, she can only just--” He

checked himself. “Show them in, Miss Smith,” he directed.

As the typist went out, followed by Innes, Paul Harley found himself

thinking of the photograph in Sir Charles Abingdon’s library and waiting

with an almost feverish expectancy for the appearance of the original.

Almost immediately Phil Abingdon came in, accompanied by the sepulchral

Doctor McMurdoch. And Harley found himself wondering whether her eyes

were really violet-coloured or whether intense emotion heroically

repressed had temporarily lent them that appearance.

Surprise was the predominant quality of his first impression. Sir

Charles Abingdon’s daughter was so exceedingly vital--petite and

slender, yet instinct with force. The seeming repose of the photograph

was misleading. That her glance could be naive he realized--as it could

also be gay--and now her eyes were sad with a sadness so deep as to

dispel the impression of lightness created by her dainty form, her

alluring, mobile lips, and the fascinating, wavy, red-brown hair.

She did not wear mourning. He recalled that there had been no time to

procure it. She was exquisitely and fashionably dressed, and even the

pallor of grief could not rob her cheeks of the bloom born of Devon

sunshine. He had expected her to be pretty. He was surprised to find her

lovely.

Doctor McMurdoch stood silent in the doorway, saying nothing by way

of introduction. But nothing was necessary. Phil Abingdon came forward

quite naturally--and quite naturally Paul Harley discovered her little

gloved hand to lie clasped between both his own. It was more like a

reunion than a first meeting and was so laden with perfect understanding

that, even yet, speech seemed scarcely worth while.

Thinking over that moment, in later days, Paul Harley remembered that

he had been prompted by some small inner voice to say: “So you have come

back?” It was recognition. Of the hundreds of men and women who came

into his life for a while, and ere long went out of it again, he knew,

by virtue of that sixth sense of his, that Phil Abingdon had come to

stay--whether for joy or sorrow he could not divine.

It was really quite brief--that interval of silence--although perhaps

long enough to bridge the ages.

“How brave of you, Miss Abingdon!” said Harley. “How wonderfully brave

of you!”

“She’s an Abingdon,” came the deep tones of Doctor McMurdoch. “She

arrived only two hours ago and here she is.”

“There can be no rest for me, Doctor,” said the girl, and strove

valiantly to control her voice, “until this dreadful doubt is removed.

Mr. Harley”--she turned to him appealingly--“please don’t study my

feelings in the least; I can bear anything--now; just tell me what

happened. Oh! I had to come. I felt that I had to come.”

As Paul Harley placed an armchair for his visitor, his glance met that

of Doctor McMurdoch, and in the gloomy eyes he read admiration of this

girl who could thus conquer the inherent weakness of her sex and at such

an hour and after a dreadful ordeal set her hand to the task which fate

had laid upon her.

Doctor McMurdoch sat down on a chair beside the door, setting his silk

hat upon the floor and clasping his massive chin with his hand.

“I will endeavour to do as you wish, Miss Abingdon,” said Harley,

glancing anxiously at the physician.

But Doctor McMurdoch returned only a dull stare. It was evident

that this man of stone was as clay in the hands of Phil Abingdon. He

deprecated the strain which she was imposing upon her nervous system,

already overwrought to the danger point, but he was helpless for all his

dour obstinacy. Harley, looking down at the girl’s profile, read a new

meaning into the firm line of her chin. He was conscious of an insane

desire to put his arms around this new acquaintance who seemed in some

indefinable yet definite way to belong to him and to whisper the tragic

story he had to tell, comforting her the while.

He began to relate what had taken place at the first interview, when Sir

Charles had told him of the menace which he had believed to hang over

his life. He spoke slowly, deliberately, choosing his words with a view

to sparing Phil Abingdon’s feelings as far as possible.

She made no comment throughout, but her fingers alternately tightened

and relaxed their hold upon the arms of the chair in which she was

seated. Once, at some reference to words spoken by her father, her

sensitive lips began to quiver and Harley, watching her, paused. She

held the chair arms more tightly. “Please go on, Mr. Harley,” she said.

The words were spoken in a very low voice, but the speaker looked up

bravely, and Harley, reassured, proceeded uninterruptedly to the end of

the story. Then:

“At some future time, Miss Abingdon,” he concluded, “I hope you will

allow me to call upon you. There is so much to be discussed--”

Again Phil Abingdon looked up into his face. “I have forced myself

to come to see you to-day,” she said, “because I realize there is no

service I can do poor dad so important as finding out--”

“I understand,” Harley interrupted, gently. “But--”

“No, no.” Phil Abingdon shook her head rebelliously. “Please ask me what

you want to know. I came for that.”

He met the glance of violet eyes, and understood something of Doctor

McMurdoch’s helplessness. He found his thoughts again wandering into

strange, wild byways and was only recalled to the realities by the

dry, gloomy voice of the physician. “Go on, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor

McMurdoch. “She has grand courage.”

CHAPTER VII. CONFESSIONS

Paul Harley crossed the room and stood in front of the tall Burmese

cabinet. He experienced the utmost difficulty in adopting a judicial

attitude toward his beautiful visitor. Proximity increased his mental

confusion. Therefore he stood on the opposite side of the office ere

beginning to question her.

“In the first place, Miss Abingdon,” he said, speaking very

deliberately, “do you attach any particular significance to the term

‘Fire-Tongue’?”

Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor McMurdoch. “None at all, Mr.

Harley,” she replied. “The doctor has already told me of--”

“You know why I ask?” She inclined her head.

“And Mr. Nicol Brinn? Have you met this gentleman?”

“Never. I know that Dad had met him and was very much interested in

him.”

“In what way?”

“I have no idea. He told me that he thought Mr. Brinn one of the most

singular characters he had ever known. But beyond describing his rooms

in Piccadilly, which had impressed him as extraordinary, he said very

little about Mr. Brinn. He sounded interesting and”--she hesitated and

her eyes filled with tears--“I asked Dad to invite him home.” Again she

paused. This retrospection, by making the dead seem to live again, added

to the horror of her sudden bereavement, and Harley would most gladly

have spared her more. “Dad seemed strangely disinclined to do so,” she

added.

At that the keen investigator came to life within Harley. “Your father

did not appear anxious to bring Mr. Brinn to his home?” he asked,

eagerly.

“Not at all anxious. This was all the more strange because Dad invited

Mr. Brinn to his club.”

“He gave no reason for his refusal?”

“Oh, there was no refusal, Mr. Harley. He merely evaded the matter. I

never knew why.”

“H’m,” muttered Harley. “And now, Miss Abingdon, can you enlighten

me respecting the identity of the Oriental gentleman with whom he had

latterly become acquainted?”

Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor McMurdoch and then lowered

her head. She did not answer at once. “I know to whom you refer, Mr.

Harley,” she said, finally. “But it was I who had made this gentleman’s

acquaintance. My father did not know him.”

“Then I wonder why he mentioned him?” murmured Harley.

“That I cannot imagine. I have been wondering ever since Doctor

McMurdoch told me.”

“You recognize the person to whom Sir Charles referred?”

“Yes. He could only have meant Ormuz Khan.”

“Ormuz Khan--” echoed Harley. “Where have I heard that name?”

“He visits England periodically, I believe. In fact, he has a house

somewhere near London. I met him at Lady Vail’s.”

“Lady Vail’s? His excellency moves, then, in diplomatic circles? Odd

that I cannot place him.”

“I have a vague idea, Mr. Harley, that he is a financier. I seem to have

heard that he had something to do with the Imperial Bank of Iran.” She

glanced naively at Harley. “Is there such a bank?” she asked.

“There is,” he replied. “Am I to understand that Ormuz Khan is a

Persian?”

“I believe he is a Persian,” said Phil Abingdon, rather confusedly. “To

be quite frank, I know very little about him.”

Paul Harley gazed steadily at the speaker for a moment. “Can you think

of any reason why Sir Charles should have worried about this gentleman?”

he asked.

The girl lowered her head again. “He paid me a lot of attention,” she

finally confessed.

“This meeting at Lady Vail’s, then, was the first of many?”

“Oh, no--not of many! I saw him two or three times. But he began to

send me most extravagant presents. I suppose it was his Oriental way of

paying a compliment, but Dad objected.”

“Of course he would. He knew his Orient and his Oriental. I assume, Miss

Abingdon, that you were in England during the years that your father

lived in the East?”

“Yes. I was at school. I have never been in the East.”

Paul Harley hesitated. He found himself upon dangerously delicate ground

and was temporarily at a loss as to how to proceed. Unexpected aid came

from the taciturn Doctor McMurdoch.

“He never breathed a word of this to me, Phil,” he said, gloomily. “The

impudence of the man! Small wonder Abingdon objected.”

Phil Abingdon tilted her chin forward rebelliously.

“Ormuz Khan was merely unfamiliar with English customs,” she retorted.

“There was nothing otherwise in his behaviour to which any one could

have taken exception.”

“What’s that!” demanded the physician. “If a man of colour paid his

heathen attentions to my daughter--”

“But you have no daughter, Doctor.”

“No. But if I had--”

“If you had,” echoed Phil Abingdon, and was about to carry on this wordy

warfare which, Harley divined, was of old standing between the two, when

sudden realization of the purpose of the visit came to her. She paused,

and he saw her biting her lips desperately. Almost at random he began to

speak again.

“So far as you are aware, then, Miss Abingdon, Sir Charles never met

Ormuz Khan?”

“He never even saw him, Mr. Harley, that I know of.”

“It is most extraordinary that he should have given me the impression

that this man--for I can only suppose that he referred to Ormuz

Khan--was in some way associated with his fears.”

“I must remind you, Mr. Harley,” Doctor McMurdoch interrupted, “that

poor Abingdon was a free talker. His pride, I take it, which was

strong, had kept him silent on this matter with me, but he welcomed an

opportunity of easing his mind to one discreet and outside the family

circle. His words to you may have had no bearing upon the thing he

wished to consult you about.”

“H’m,” mused Harley. “That’s possible. But such was not my impression.”

He turned again to Phil Abingdon. “This Ormuz Khan, I understood you to

say, actually resides in or near London?”

“He is at present living at the Savoy, I believe. He also has a house

somewhere outside London.”

There were a hundred other questions Paul Harley was anxious to ask:

some that were professional but more that were personal. He found

himself resenting the intrusion of this wealthy Oriental into the

life of the girl who sat there before him. And because he could read a

kindred resentment in the gloomy eye of Doctor McMurdoch, he was drawn

spiritually closer to that dour character.

By virtue of his training he was a keen psychologist, and he perceived

clearly enough that Phil Abingdon was one of those women in whom a

certain latent perversity is fanned to life by opposition. Whether

she was really attracted by Ormuz Khan or whether she suffered his

attentions merely because she knew them to be distasteful to others, he

could not yet decide.

Anger threatened him--as it had threatened him when he had realized that

Nicol Brinn meant to remain silent. He combated it, for it had no place

in the judicial mind of the investigator. But he recognized its presence

with dismay. Where Phil Abingdon was concerned he could not trust

himself. In her glance, too, and in the manner of her answers to

questions concerning the Oriental, there was a provoking femininity--a

deliberate and baffling intrusion of the eternal Eve.

He stared questioningly across at Doctor McMurdoch and perceived a

sudden look of anxiety in the physician’s face. Quick as the thought

which the look inspired, he turned to Phil Abingdon.

She was sitting quite motionless in the big armchair, and her face had

grown very pale. Even as he sprang forward he saw her head droop.

“She has fainted,” said Doctor McMurdoch. “I’m not surprised.”

“Nor I,” replied Harley. “She should not have come.”

He opened the door communicating with his private apartments and

ran out. But, quick as he was, Phil Abingdon had recovered before he

returned with the water for which he had gone. Her reassuring smile was

somewhat wan. “How perfectly silly of me!” she said. “I shall begin to

despise myself.”

Presently he went down to the street with his visitors.

“There must be so much more you want to know, Mr. Harley,” said Phil

Abingdon. “Will you come and see me?”

He promised to do so. His sentiments were so strangely complex that

he experienced a desire for solitude in order that he might strive to

understand them. As he stood at the door watching the car move toward

the Strand he knew that to-day he could not count upon his intuitive

powers to warn him of sudden danger. But he keenly examined the faces of

passers-by and stared at the occupants of those cabs and cars which

were proceeding in the same direction as the late Sir Charles Abingdon’s

limousine.

No discovery rewarded him, however, and he returned upstairs to his

office deep in thought. “I am in to nobody,” he said as he passed the

desk at which Innes was at work.

“Very good, Mr. Harley.”

Paul Harley walked through to the private office and, seating himself at

the big, orderly table, reached over to a cupboard beside him and took

out a tin of smoking mixture. He began very slowly to load his pipe,

gazing abstractedly across the room at the tall Burmese cabinet.

He realized that, excepting the extraordinary behaviour and the veiled

but significant statements of Nicol Brinn, his theory that Sir Charles

Abingdon had not died from natural causes rested upon data of the most

flimsy description. From Phil Abingdon he had learned nothing whatever.

Her evidence merely tended to confuse the case more hopelessly.

It was sheer nonsense to suppose that Ormuz Khan, who was evidently

interested in the girl, could be in any way concerned in the death of

her father. Nevertheless, as an ordinary matter of routine, Paul Harley,

having lighted his pipe, made a note on a little block:

Cover activities of Ormuz Khan.

He smoked reflectively for a while and then added another note:

Watch Nicol Brinn.

For ten minutes or more he sat smoking and thinking, his unseeing gaze

set upon the gleaming lacquer of the cabinet; and presently, as he

smoked, he became aware of an abrupt and momentary chill. His sixth

sense was awake again. Taking up a pencil, he added a third note:

Watch yourself. You are in danger.

CHAPTER VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS

Deep in reflection and oblivious of the busy London life around him,

Paul Harley walked slowly along the Strand. Outwardly he was still the

keen-eyed investigator who could pry more deeply into a mystery than

any other in England; but to-day his mood was introspective. He was in a

brown study.

The one figure which had power to recall him to the actual world

suddenly intruded itself upon his field of vision. From dreams which he

recognized in the moment of awakening to have been of Phil Abingdon, he

was suddenly aroused to the fact that Phil Abingdon herself was present.

Perhaps, half subconsciously, he had been looking for her.

Veiled and dressed in black, he saw her slim figure moving through the

throng. He conceived the idea that there was something furtive in her

movements. She seemed to be hurrying along as if desirous of avoiding

recognition. Every now and again she glanced back, evidently in search

of a cab, and a dormant suspicion which had lain in Harley’s mind now

became animate. Phil Abingdon was coming from the direction of the Savoy

Hotel. Was it possible that she had been to visit Ormuz Khan?

Harley crossed the Strand and paused just in front of the hurrying,

black-clad figure. “Miss Abingdon,” he said, “a sort of instinct told me

that I should meet you to-day.”

She stopped suddenly, and through the black veil which she wore he saw

her eyes grow larger--or such was the effect as she opened them widely.

Perhaps he misread their message. To him Phil Abingdon’s expression was

that of detected guilt. More than ever he was convinced of the truth of

his suspicions. “Perhaps you were looking for a cab?” he suggested.

Overcoming her surprise, or whatever emotion had claimed her at

the moment of this unexpected meeting, Phil Abingdon took Harley’s

outstretched hand and held it for a moment before replying. “I had

almost despaired of finding one,” she said, “and I am late already.”

“The porter at the Savoy would get you one.”

“I have tried there and got tired of waiting,” she answered quite

simply.

For a moment Harley’s suspicions were almost dispelled, and, observing

an empty cab approaching, he signalled to the man to pull up.

“Where do you want to go to?” he inquired, opening the door.

“I am due at Doctor McMurdoch’s,” she replied, stepping in.

Paul Harley hesitated, glancing from the speaker to the driver.

“I wonder if you have time to come with me,” said Phil Abingdon. “I know

the doctor wants to see you.”

“I will come with pleasure,” replied Harley, a statement which was no

more than true.

Accordingly he gave the necessary directions to the taxi man and seated

himself beside the girl in the cab.

“I am awfully glad of an opportunity of a chat with you, Mr. Harley,”

said Phil Abingdon. “The last few days have seemed like one long

nightmare to me.” She sighed pathetically. “Surely Doctor McMurdoch is

right, and all the horrible doubts which troubled us were idle ones,

after all?”

She turned to Harley, looking almost eagerly into his face. “Poor daddy

hadn’t an enemy in the world, I am sure,” she said. “His extraordinary

words to you no doubt have some simple explanation. Oh, it would be such

a relief to know that his end was a natural one. At least it would dull

the misery of it all a little bit.”

The appeal in her eyes was of a kind which Harley found much difficulty

in resisting. It would have been happiness to offer consolation to this

sorrowing girl. But, although he could not honestly assure her that

he had abandoned his theories, he realized that the horror of her

suspicions was having a dreadful effect upon Phil Abingdon’s mind.

“You may quite possibly be right,” he said, gently. “In any event, I

hope you will think as little as possible about the morbid side of this

unhappy business.”

“I try to,” she assured him, earnestly, “but you can imagine how hard

the task is. I know that you must have some good reason for your idea;

something, I mean, other than the mere words which have puzzled us all

so much. Won’t you tell me?”

Now, Paul Harley had determined, since the girl was unacquainted with

Nicol Brinn, to conceal from her all that he had learned from that

extraordinary man. In this determination he had been actuated, too, by

the promptings of the note of danger which, once seemingly attuned to

the movements of Sir Charles Abingdon, had, after the surgeon’s death,

apparently become centred upon himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded

the thought that the cloud might stretch out over the life of this girl

who sat beside him and whom he felt so urgently called upon to protect

from such a menace.

The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it emanate, and by whom had

it been called into being? He looked into the violet eyes, and as a

while before he had moved alone through the wilderness of London now he

seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon on the border of a spirit world

which had no existence for the multitudes around. Psychically, he

was very close to her at that moment; and when he replied he replied

evasively: “I have absolutely no scrap of evidence, Miss Abingdon,

pointing to foul play. The circumstances were peculiar, of course, but

I have every confidence in Doctor McMurdoch’s efficiency. Since he is

satisfied, it would be mere impertinence on my part to question his

verdict.”

Phil Abingdon repeated the weary sigh and turned her head aside,

glancing down to where with one small shoe she was restlessly tapping

the floor of the cab. They were both silent for some moments.

“Don’t you trust me?” she asked, suddenly. “Or don’t you think I am

clever enough to share your confidence?”

As she spoke she looked at him challengingly, and he felt all the force

of personality which underlay her outward lightness of manner.

“I both trust you and respect your intelligence,” he answered, quietly.

“If I withhold anything from you, I am prompted by a very different

motive from the one you suggest.”

“Then you are keeping something from me,” she said, softly. “I knew you

were.”

“Miss Abingdon,” replied Harley, “when the worst trials of this affair

are over, I want to have a long talk with you. Until then, won’t you

believe that I am acting for the best?”

But Phil Abingdon’s glance was unrelenting.

“In your opinion it may be so, but you won’t do me the honour of

consulting mine.”

Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but had hoped that she

would not adopt it. She possessed in a high degree the feminine art of

provoking a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the fact that she

had thus shifted the discussion from the abstract to the personal. He

smiled slightly, and Phil Abingdon’s expression relaxed in response and

she lowered her eyes quickly. “Why do you persistently treat me like a

child?” she said.

“I don’t know,” replied Harley, delighted but bewildered by her sudden

change of mood. “Perhaps because I want to.”

She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly out of the cab window;

and Harley did not break this silence, much as he would have liked to do

so. He was mentally reviewing his labours of the preceding day when, in

the character of a Colonial visitor with much time on his hands, he had

haunted the Savoy for hours in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Ormuz

Khan. His vigil had been fruitless, and on returning by a roundabout

route to his office he had bitterly charged himself with wasting

valuable time upon a side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat in his

study endeavouring to arrange his ideas in order, he had discovered many

points in his own defence.

If his ineffective surveillance of Ormuz Khan had been dictated by

interest in Phil Abingdon rather than by strictly professional motives,

it was, nevertheless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a case.

But while he had personally undertaken the matter of his excellency

he had left the work of studying the activities of Nicol Brinn to an

assistant. He could not succeed in convincing himself that, on the

evidence available, the movements of the Oriental gentleman were more

important than those of the American.

“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.

She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and followed the girl

into Doctor McMurdoch’s house. Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs.

McMurdoch, who, as experience had taught him to anticipate, was as plump

and merry and vivacious as her husband was lean, gloomy, and taciturn.

But she was a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the bereaved

girl showed. She took her in her arms and hugged her in a way that was

good to see.

“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when the formality of

presenting Harley was over. “Are you quite sure that you want to go?”

Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had raised her veil, and Harley

could see that her eyes were full of tears. “I should like to see the

flowers,” she answered.

She was staying at the McMurdochs’ house, and as the object at present

in view was that of a visit to her old home, from which the funeral

of Sir Charles Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley became

suddenly conscious of the fact that his presence was inopportune.

“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMurdoch,” he said, turning to

the dour physician. “Shall I await your return or do you expect to be

detained?”

But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the matter. She stepped up beside

him and linked her arm in his.

“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded. “I want you to.”

As a result he found himself a few minutes later entering the hall

of the late Sir Charles’s house. The gloved hand resting on his arm

trembled, but when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon’s

face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her clasp tightened as if to

reassure him.

It seemed quite natural that she should derive comfort from the presence

of this comparative stranger; and neither of the two, as they

stood there looking at the tributes to the memory of the late Sir

Charles--which overflowed from a neighbouring room into the lobby

and were even piled upon the library table--were conscious of any

strangeness in the situation.

The first thing that had struck Harley on entering the house had been

an overpowering perfume of hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for,

conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an enormous device formed

of hyacinths. Its proportions dwarfed those of all the others.

Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little figure, appeared now

from behind the bank of flowers. Her grief could not rob her of that

Old World manner which was hers, and she saluted the visitors with a bow

which promised to develop into a curtsey. Noting the direction of Phil

Abingdon’s glance, which was set upon a card attached to the wreath of

hyacinths: “It was the first to arrive, Miss Phil,” she said. “Isn’t it

beautiful?”

“It’s wonderful,” said the girl, moving forward and drawing Harley along

with her. She glanced from the card up to his face, which was set in a

rather grim expression.

“Ormuz Khan has been so good,” she said. “He sent his secretary to see

if he could be of any assistance yesterday, but I certainly had not

expected this.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he thought they were

tears of gratitude, Harley clenched his hand tightly so that the muscles

of his forearm became taut to Phil Abingdon’s touch. She looked up at

him, smiling pathetically: “Don’t you think it was awfully kind of him?”

she asked.

“Very,” replied Harley.

A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came from Doctor McMurdoch; and

Harley divined with joy that when the ordeal of the next day was over

Phil Abingdon would have to face cross-examination by the conscientious

Scotsman respecting this stranger whose attentions, if Orientally

extravagant, were instinct with such generous sympathy.

For some reason the heavy perfume of the hyacinths affected him

unpleasantly. All his old doubts and suspicions found a new life, so

that his share in the conversation which presently arose became confined

to a few laconic answers to direct questions.

He was angry, and his anger was more than half directed against himself,

because he knew that he had no shadow of right to question this girl

about her friendships or even to advise her. He determined, however,

even at the cost of incurring a rebuke, to urge Doctor McMurdoch to

employ all the influence he possessed to terminate an acquaintanceship

which could not be otherwise than undesirable, if it was not actually

dangerous.

When, presently, the party returned to the neighbouring house of the

physician, however, Harley’s plans in this respect were destroyed by

the action of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition tact was not a

predominant factor. Almost before they were seated in the doctor’s

drawing room he voiced his disapproval. “Phil,” he said, ignoring a

silent appeal from his wife, “this is, mayhap, no time to speak of the

matter, but I’m not glad to see the hyacinths.”

Phil Abingdon’s chin quivered rebelliously, and, to Harley’s dismay,

it was upon him that she fixed her gaze in replying. “Perhaps you also

disapprove of his excellency’s kindness?” she said, indignantly.

Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for words. She was perfectly

well aware that he disapproved, and now was taking a cruel pleasure in

reminding him of the fact that he was not entitled to do so. Had he

been capable of that calm analysis to which ordinarily he submitted all

psychological problems, he must have found matter for rejoicing in

this desire of the girl’s to hurt him. “I am afraid, Miss Abingdon,” he

replied, quietly, “that the matter is not one in which I am entitled to

express my opinion.”

She continued to look at him challengingly, but:

“Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch, “but if you were, your

opinion would be the same as mine.”

Mrs. McMurdoch’s glance became positively beseeching, but the physician

ignored it. “As your father’s oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel

called upon to remark that it isn’t usual for strangers to thrust their

attentions upon a bereaved family.”

“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I understand that this is

also your opinion, Mr. Harley?”

“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “it cannot

fail to be.”

Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent entreaties of his wife.

“I will speak of this later,” he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have

spoken now.”

Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon’s cheeks.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. McMurdoch, running to her

side.

But the girl sprang up, escaping from the encircling arm of the motherly

old lady. She shook her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and

weakness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face. “I think you are

all perfectly cruel and horrible,” she said in a choking voice, turned,

and ran out.

A distant door banged.

“H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I’ve put my foot in it.”

His wife looked at him in speechless indignation and then followed Phil

Abingdon from the room.

CHAPTER IX. TWO REPORTS

On returning to his office Paul Harley found awaiting him the report

of the man to whom he had entrusted the study of the movements of Nicol

Brinn. His mood was a disturbed one, and he had observed none of his

customary precautions in coming from Doctor McMurdoch’s house. He

wondered if the surveillance which he had once detected had ceased.

Perhaps the chambers of Nicol Brinn were the true danger zone upon which

these subtle but powerful forces now were focussed. On the other hand,

he was quite well aware that his movements might have been watched

almost uninterruptedly since the hour that Sir Charles Abingdon had

visited his office.

During the previous day, in his attempt to learn the identity of

Ormuz Khan, he had covered his tracks with his customary care. He had

sufficient faith in his knowledge of disguise, which was extensive,

to believe that those mysterious persons who were interested in his

movements remained unaware of the fact that the simple-minded visitor

from Vancouver who had spent several hours in and about the Savoy, and

Paul Harley of Chancery Lane, were one and the same.

His brain was far too alertly engaged with troubled thoughts of Phil

Abingdon to be susceptible to the influence of those delicate etheric

waves which he had come to recognize as the note of danger. Practically

there had been no development whatever in the investigation, and he was

almost tempted to believe that the whole thing was a mirage, when the

sight of the typewritten report translated him mentally to the luxurious

chambers in Piccadilly.

Again, almost clairvoyantly, he saw the stoical American seated before

the empty fireplace, his foot restlessly tapping the fender. Again he

heard the curious, high tones: “I’ll tell you... You have opened the

gates of hell....”

The whole scene, with its tantalizing undercurrent of mystery, was

reenacted before his inner vision. He seemed to hear Nicol Brinn,

startled from his reverie, exclaim: “I think it was an owl.... We

sometimes get them over from the Green Park....”

Why should so simple an incident have produced so singular an effect?

For the face of the speaker had been ashen.

Then the pendulum swung inevitably back: “You are all perfectly cruel

and horrible....”

Paul Harley clenched his hands, frowning at the Burmese cabinet as

though he hated it.

How persistently the voice of Phil Abingdon rang in his ears! He could

not forget her lightest words. How hopelessly her bewitching image

intruded itself between his reasoning mind and the problem upon which he

sought to concentrate.

Miss Smith, the typist, had gone, for it was after six o’clock, and

Innes alone was on duty. He came in as Harley, placing his hat and cane

upon the big writing table, sat down to study the report.

“Inspector Wessex rang up, Mr. Harley, about an hour ago. He said he

would be at the Yard until six.”

“Has he obtained any information?” asked Paul Harley, wearily, glancing

at his little table clock.

“He said he had had insufficient time to do much in the matter, but that

there were one or two outstanding facts which might interest you.”

“Did he seem to be surprised?”

“He did,” confessed Innes. “He said that Ormuz Khan was a well-known

figure in financial circles, and asked me in what way you were

interested in him.”

“Ah!” murmured Harley. He took up the telephone. “City 400,” he said....

“Is that the Commissioner’s Office, New Scotland Yard? ... Paul Harley

speaking. Would you please inquire if Detective Inspector Wessex has

gone?”

While awaiting a reply he looked up at Innes. “Is there anything else?”

he asked.

“Only the letters, Mr. Harley.”

“No callers?”

“No.”

“Leave the letters, then; I will see to them. You need not wait.” A

moment later, as his secretary bade him good-night and went out of the

office:

“Hello,” said Harley, speaking into the mouthpiece... “The inspector

has gone? Perhaps you would ask him to ring me up in the morning.” He

replaced the receiver on the hook.

Resting his chin in his hands, he began to read from the typewritten

pages before him. His assistant’s report was conceived as follows:

‘Re Mr. Nicol Brinn of Raleigh House, Piccadilly, W. I.

‘Mr. Nicol Brinn is an American citizen, born at Cincinnati, Ohio,

February 15, 1884. He is the son of John Nicolas Brinn of the same

city, founder of the firm of J. Nicolas Brinn, Incorporated, later

reconstituted under the style of Brinn’s Universal Electric Supply

Corporation.

‘Nicol Brinn is a graduate of Harvard. He has travelled extensively

in nearly all parts of the world and has access to the best society

of Europe and America. He has a reputation for eccentricity, has won

numerous sporting events as a gentleman rider; was the first airman to

fly over the Rockies; took part in the Uruguay rebellion of 1904, and

held the rank of lieutenant colonel of field artillery with the American

forces during the Great War.

‘He has published a work on big game and has contributed numerous travel

articles to American periodicals. On the death of Mr. Brinn, senior, in

1914, he inherited an enormous fortune and a preponderating influence

in the B.U.E.S.C. He has never taken any active part in conduct of the

concern, but has lived a restless and wandering life in various parts of

the world.

‘Mr. Nicol Brinn is a confirmed bachelor. I have been unable to find

that he has ever taken the slightest interest in any woman other than

his mother throughout his career. Mrs. J. Nicolas Brinn is still living

in Cincinnati, and there is said to be a strong bond of affection

between mother and son. His movements on yesterday, 4th June, 1921, were

as follows:

‘He came out of his chambers at eight o’clock and rode for an hour in

the park, when he returned and remained indoors until midday. He then

drove to the Carlton, where he lunched with the Foreign Secretary, with

whom he remained engaged in earnest conversation until ten minutes to

three. The Rt. Hon. gentleman proceeded to the House of Commons and Mr.

Brinn to an auction at Christie’s. He bought two oil paintings. He then

returned to his chambers and did not reappear again until seven o’clock.

He dined alone at a small and unfashionable restaurant in Soho, went on

to his box at Covent Garden, where he remained for an hour, also alone,

and then went home. He had no callers throughout the day.’

Deliberately Paul Harley had read the report, only removing his hand

from his chin to turn over the pages. Now from the cabinet at his elbow

he took out his tin of tobacco and, filling and lighting a pipe, lay

back, eyes half closed, considering what he had learned respecting Nicol

Brinn.

That he was concerned in the death of Sir Charles Abingdon he did

not believe for a moment; but that this elusive case, which upon

investigation only seemed the more obscure, was nevertheless a case of

deliberate murder he was as firmly convinced as ever. Of the identity of

the murderer, of his motive, he had not the haziest idea, but that the

cloud which he had pictured as overhanging the life of the late Sir

Charles was a reality and not a myth of the imagination he became more

completely convinced with each new failure to pick up a clue.

He found himself helplessly tied. In which direction should he move and

to what end? Inclination prompted him in one direction, common sense

held him back. As was his custom, he took a pencil and wrote upon a

little block:

Find means to force Brinn to speak.

He lay back in his chair again, deep in thought, and presently added the

note:

Obtain interview with Ormuz Khan.

Just as he replaced the pencil on the table, his telephone bell rang.

The caller proved to be his friend, Inspector Wessex.

“Hello, Mr. Harley,” said the inspector. “I had occasion to return to

the Yard, and they told me you had rung up. I don’t know why you are

interested in this Ormuz Khan, unless you want to raise a loan.”

Paul Harley laughed. “I gather that he is a man of extensive means,”

he replied, “but hitherto he has remained outside my radius of

observation.”

“And outside mine,” declared the inspector. “He hasn’t the most distant

connection with anything crooked. It gave me a lot of trouble to find

out what little I have found out. Briefly, all I have to tell you is

this: Ormuz Khan--who is apparently entitled to be addressed as

‘his excellency’--is a director of the Imperial Bank of Iran, and

is associated, too, with one of the Ottoman banks. I presume his

nationality is Persian, but I can’t be sure of it. He periodically turns

up in the various big capitals when international loans and that sort of

thing are being negotiated. I understand that he has a flat somewhere

in Paris, and the Service de Surete tells me that his name is good for

several million francs over there. He appears to have a certain fondness

for London during the spring and early summer months, and I am told he

has a fine place in Surrey. He is at present living at Savoy Court.

He appears to be something of a dandy and to be very partial

to the fair sex, but nevertheless there is nothing wrong with

his reputation,considering, I mean, that the man is a sort of

Eastern multimillionaire.”

“Ah!” said Harley, who had been listening eagerly. “Is that the extent

of your information, Wessex?”

“That’s it,” replied Wessex, with a laugh. “I hope you’ll find it

useful, but I doubt it. He hasn’t been picking pockets or anything, has

he?”

“No,” said Harley, shortly. “I don’t apprehend that his excellency will

ever appear in your province, Wessex. My interest in him is of a purely

personal nature. Thanks for all the trouble you have taken.”

Paul Harley began to pace the office. From a professional point of view

the information was uninteresting enough, but from another point of

view it had awakened again that impotent anger which he had too often

experienced in these recent, strangely restless days.

At all costs he must see Ormuz Khan, although how he was to obtain

access to this man who apparently never left his private apartments (if

the day of his vigil at the Savoy had been a typical one) he failed to

imagine.

Nevertheless, pausing at the table, he again took up his pencil, and

to the note “Obtain interview with Ormuz Khan” he added the one word,

underlined:

“To-morrow.”

CHAPTER X. HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHAN

The city clocks were chiming the hour of ten on the following morning

when a page from the Savoy approached the shop of Mr. Jarvis, bootmaker,

which is situated at no great distance from the hotel. The impudent face

of the small boy wore an expression of serio-comic fright as he pushed

open the door and entered the shop.

Jarvis, the bootmaker, belonged to a rapidly disappearing class of

British tradesmen. He buckled to no one, but took an artistic pride in

his own handiwork, criticism from a layman merely provoking a scornful

anger which had lost Jarvis many good customers.

He was engaged, at the moment of the page’s entrance, in a little

fitting room at the back of his cramped premises, but through the

doorway the boy could see the red, bespectacled face with its fringe of

bristling white beard, in which he detected all the tokens of brewing

storm. He whistled softly in self-sympathy.

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis was saying to an invisible patron, “it’s a welcome

sight to see a real Englishman walk into my shop nowadays. London isn’t

London, sir, since the war, and the Strand will never be the Strand

again.” He turned to his assistant, who stood beside him, bootjack in

hand. “If he sends them back again,” he directed, “tell him to go to

one of the French firms in Regent Street who cater to dainty ladies.” He

positively snorted with indignation, while the page, listening, whistled

again and looked down at the parcel which he carried.

“An unwelcome customer, Jarvis?” inquired the voice of the man in the

fitting room.

“Quite unwelcome,” said Jarvis. “I don’t want him. I have more work than

I know how to turn out. I wish he would go elsewhere. I wish--”

He paused. He had seen the page boy. The latter, having undone his

parcel, was holding out a pair of elegant, fawn-coloured shoes.

“Great Moses!” breathed Jarvis. “He’s had the cheek to send them back

again!”

“His excellency--” began the page, when Jarvis snatched the shoes from

his hand and hurled them to the other end of the shop. His white beard

positively bristled.

“Tell his excellency,” he shouted, “to go to the devil, with my

compliments!”

So positively ferocious was his aspect that the boy, with upraised arm,

backed hastily out into the street. Safety won: “Blimey!” exclaimed the

youth. “He’s the warm goods, he is!”

He paused for several moments, staring in a kind of stupefied admiration

at the closed door of Mr. Jarvis’s establishment. He whistled again,

softly, and then began to run--for the formidable Mr. Jarvis suddenly

opened the door. “Hi, boy!” he called to the page. The page hesitated,

glancing back doubtfully. “Tell his excellency that I will send round in

about half an hour to remeasure his foot.”

“D’you mean it?” inquired the boy, impudently--“or is there a catch in

it?”

“I’ll tan your hide, my lad!” cried the bootmaker--“and I mean that!

Take my message and keep your mouth shut.”

The boy departed, grinning, and little more than half an hour later a

respectable-looking man presented himself at Savoy Court, inquiring of

the attendant near the elevator for the apartments of “his excellency,”

followed by an unintelligible word which presumably represented “Ormuz

Khan.” The visitor wore a well-brushed but threadbare tweed suit,

although his soft collar was by no means clean. He had a short,

reddish-brown beard, and very thick, curling hair of the same hue

protruded from beneath a bowler hat which had seen long service.

Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his teeth were much

discoloured and apparently broken in front, as is usual with cobblers.

His hands, too, were toil-stained and his nails very black. He carried

a cardboard box. He seemed to be extremely nervous, and this nervousness

palpably increased when the impudent page, who was standing in the

lobby, giggled on hearing his inquiry.

“He’s second floor,” said the youth. “Are you from Hot-Stuff Jarvis?”

“That’s right, lad,” replied the visitor, speaking with a marked

Manchester accent; “from Mr. Jarvis.”

“And are you really going up?” inquired the boy with mock solicitude.

“I’m going up right enough. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Shut up, Chivers,” snapped the hall porter. “Ring the bell.” He glanced

at the cobbler. “Second floor,” he said, tersely, and resumed his study

of a newspaper which he had been reading.

The representative of Mr. Jarvis was carried up to the second floor and

the lift man, having indicated at which door he should knock, descended

again. The cobbler’s nervousness thereupon became more marked than ever,

so that a waiter, seeing him looking helplessly from door to door, took

pity on him and inquired for whom he was searching.

“His excellency,” was the reply; “but I’m hanged if I can remember the

number or how to pronounce his name.”

The waiter glanced at him oddly. “Ormuz Khan,” he said, and rang the

bell beside a door. As he hurried away, “Good luck!” he called back.

There was a short interval, and then the door was opened by a man

who looked like a Hindu. He wore correct morning dress and through

gold-rimmed pince-nez he stared inquiringly at the caller.

“Is his excellency at home?” asked the latter. “I’m from Mr. Jarvis, the

bootmaker.”

“Oh!” said the other, smiling slightly. “Come in. What is your name?”

“Parker, sir. From Mr. Jarvis.”

As the door closed, Parker found himself in a small lobby. Beside

an umbrella rack a high-backed chair was placed. “Sit down,” he was

directed. “I will tell his excellency that you are here.”

A door was opened and closed again, and Parker found himself alone. He

twirled his bowler hat, which he held in his hand, and stared about

the place vacantly. Once he began to whistle, but checked himself and

coughed nervously. Finally the Hindu gentleman reappeared, beckoning to

him to enter.

Parker stood up very quickly and advanced, hat in hand.

Then he remembered the box which he had left on the floor, and, stooping

to recover it, he dropped his hat. But at last, leaving his hat upon the

chair and carrying the box under his arm, he entered a room which had

been converted into a very businesslike office.

There was a typewriter upon a table near the window at which someone had

evidently been at work quite recently, and upon a larger table in the

centre of the room were dispatch boxes, neat parcels of documents,

ledgers, works of reference, and all the evidence of keen commercial

activity. Crossing the room, the Hindu rapped upon an inner door, opened

it, and standing aside, “The man from the bootmaker,” he said in a low

voice.

Parker advanced, peering about him as one unfamiliar with his

surroundings. As he crossed the threshold the door was closed behind

him, and he found himself in a superheated atmosphere heavy with the

perfume of hyacinths.

The place was furnished as a sitting room, but some of its appointments

were obviously importations. Its keynote was orientalism, not of that

sensuous yet grossly masculine character which surrounds the wealthy

Eastern esthete but quite markedly feminine. There were an extraordinary

number of cushions, and many bowls and vases containing hyacinths. What

other strange appointments were present Parker was far too nervous to

observe.

He stood dumbly before a man who lolled back in a deep, cushioned chair

and whose almond-shaped eyes, black as night, were set immovably upon

him. This man was apparently young. He wore a rich, brocaded robe,

trimmed with marten fur, and out of it his long ivory throat rose

statuesquely. His complexion was likewise of this uniform ivory colour,

and from his low smooth brow his hair was brushed back in a series of

glossy black waves.

His lips were full and very red. As a woman he might have been

considered handsome--even beautiful; in a man this beauty was unnatural

and repellent. He wore Oriental slippers, fur-lined, and his feet rested

on a small ottoman. One long, slender hand lay upon a cushion placed on

the chair arm, and a pretty girl was busily engaged in manicuring

his excellency’s nails. Although the day held every promise of being

uncomfortably hot, already a huge fire was burning in the grate.

As Parker stood before him, the languid, handsome Oriental did not stir

a muscle, merely keeping the gaze of his strange black eyes fixed upon

the nervous cobbler. The manicurist, after one quick upward glance,

continued her work. But in this moment of distraction she had hurt the

cuticle of one of those delicate, slender fingers.

Ormuz Khan withdrew his hand sharply from the cushion, glanced aside at

the girl, and then, extending his hand again, pushed her away from him.

Because of her half-kneeling posture, she almost fell, but managed to

recover herself by clutching at the edge of a little table upon which

the implements of her trade were spread. The table rocked and a bowl of

water fell crashing on the carpet. His excellency spoke. His voice was

very musical.

“Clumsy fool,” he said. “You have hurt me. Go.”

The girl became very white and began to gather up the articles upon the

table. “I am sorry,” she said, “but--”

“I do not wish you to speak,” continued the musical voice; “only to go.”

Hurriedly collecting the remainder of the implements and placing them

in an attache case, the manicurist hurried from the room. Her eyes were

overbright and her lips pathetically tremulous. Ormuz Khan never glanced

in her direction again, but resumed his disconcerting survey of Parker.

“Yes?” he said.

Parker bumblingly began to remove the lid of the cardboard box which he

had brought with him.

“I do not wish you to alter the shoes you have made,” said his

excellency. “I instructed you to remeasure my foot in order that you

might make a pair to fit.”

“Yes, sir,” said Parker. “Quite so, your excellency.” And he dropped the

box and the shoes upon the floor. “Just a moment, sir?”

From an inner pocket he drew out a large sheet of white paper, a pencil,

and a tape measure. “Will you place your foot upon this sheet of paper,

sir?”

Ormuz Khan raised his right foot listlessly.

“Slipper off, please, sir.”

“I am waiting,” replied the other, never removing his gaze from Parker’s

face.

“Oh, I beg your pardon sir, your excellency,” muttered the bootmaker.

Dropping upon one knee, he removed the furred slipper from a slender,

arched foot, bare, of the delicate colour of ivory, and as small as a

woman’s.

“Now, sir.”

The ivory foot was placed upon the sheet of paper, and very clumsily

Parker drew its outline. He then took certain measurements and made a

number of notes with a stub of thick pencil. Whenever his none too

clean hands touched Ormuz Khan’s delicate skin the Oriental perceptibly

shuddered.

“Of course, sir,” said Parker at last, “I should really have taken your

measurement with the sock on.”

“I wear only the finest silk.”

“Very well, sir. As you wish.”

Parker replaced paper, pencil, and measure, and, packing up the rejected

shoes, made for the door.

“Oh, bootmaker!” came the musical voice.

Parker turned. “Yes, sir?”

“They will be ready by Monday?”

“If possible, your excellency.”

“Otherwise I shall not accept them.”

Ormuz Khan drew a hyacinth from a vase close beside him and languidly

waved it in dismissal.

In the outer room the courteous secretary awaited Parker, and there was

apparently no one else in the place, for the Hindu conducted him to the

lobby and opened the door.

Parker said “Good morning, sir,” and would have departed without his hat

had not the secretary smilingly handed it to him.

When, presently, the cobbler emerged from the elevator, below, he paused

before leaving the hotel to mop his perspiring brow with a large, soiled

handkerchief. The perfume of hyacinths seemed to have pursued him,

bringing with it a memory of the handsome, effeminate ivory face of the

man above. He was recalled to his senses by the voice of the impudent

page.

“Been kicked out, gov’nor?” the youth inquired. “You’re the third this

morning.”

“Is that so?” answered Parker. “Who were the other two, lad?”

“The girl wot comes to do his nails. A stunnin’ bird, too. She came down

cryin’ a few minutes ago. Then--”

“Shut up, Chivers!” cried the hall porter. “You’re asking for the sack,

and I’m the man to get it for you.”

Chivers did not appear to be vastly perturbed by this prospect, and

he grinned agreeably at Parker as the latter made his way out into the

courtyard.

Any one sufficiently interested to have done so might have found matter

for surprise had he followed that conscientious bootmaker as he left the

hotel. He did not proceed to the shop of Mr. Jarvis, but, crossing the

Strand, mounted a city-bound motor bus and proceeded eastward upon it as

far as the Law Courts. Here he dismounted and plunged into that maze of

tortuous lanes which dissects the triangle formed by Chancery Lane and

Holborn.

His step was leisurely, and once he stopped to light his pipe, peering

with interest into the shop window of a law stationer. Finally he came

to another little shop which had once formed part of a private house. It

was of the lock-up variety, and upon the gauze blind which concealed the

interior appeared the words: “The Chancery Agency.”

Whether the Chancery Agency was a press agency, a literary or a dramatic

agency, was not specified, but Mr. Parker was evidently well acquainted

with the establishment, for he unlocked the door with a key which he

carried and, entering a tiny shop, closed and locked the door behind him

again.

The place was not more than ten yards square and the ceiling was very

low. It was barely furnished as an office, but evidently Mr. Parker’s

business was not of a nature to detain him here. There was a second door

to be unlocked; and beyond it appeared a flight of narrow stairs--at

some time the servant’s stair of the partially demolished house which

had occupied that site in former days. Relocking this door in turn, Mr.

Parker mounted the stair and presently found himself in a spacious and

well-furnished bedroom.

This bedroom contained an extraordinary number of wardrobes, and a

big dressing table with wing mirrors lent a theatrical touch to the

apartment. This was still further enhanced by the presence of all sorts

of wigs, boxes of false hair, and other items of make-up. At the table

Mr. Parker seated himself, and when, half an hour later, the bedroom

door was opened, it was not Mr. Parker who crossed the book-lined study

within and walked through to the private office where Innes was seated

writing. It was Mr. Paul Harley.

CHAPTER XI. THE PURPLE STAIN

For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of the

routine duties which should have claimed his attention. His face was

set and grim, and his expression one of total abstraction. In spirit

he stood again in that superheated room at the Savoy. Sometimes, as he

mused, he would smoke with unconscious vigour, surrounding himself with

veritable fog banks. An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reached

him, to conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of Ormuz

Khan.

He was savagely aware of a great mental disorderliness. He recognized

that his brain remained a mere whirlpool from which Phyllis Abingdon,

the deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and another, alternately arose to

claim supremacy. He clenched his teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.

But after some time, although rebelliously, his thoughts began to

marshal themselves in a certain definite formation. And outstanding,

alone, removed from the ordinary, almost from the real, was the bizarre

personality of Ormuz Khan.

The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supplied by Inspector

Wessex, had led him to expect quite a different type of character.

Inured as Paul Harley was to surprise, his first sentiment as he had set

eyes upon the man had been one of sheer amazement.

“Something of a dandy,” inadequately described the repellent

sensuousness of this veritable potentate, who could contrive to invest

a sitting room in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a secret

Eastern household. To consider Ormuz Khan in connection with matters

of international finance was wildly incongruous, while the manicurist

incident indicated an inherent cruelty only possible in one of Oriental

race.

In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul Harley found himself

looking again into those black, inscrutable eyes and trying to analyze

the elusive quality of their regard. They were unlike any eyes that

he had met with. It were folly to count their possessor a negligible

quantity. Nevertheless, it was difficult, because of the fellow’s

scented effeminacy, to believe that women could find him attractive.

But Harley, wise in worldly lore, perceived that the mystery surrounding

Ormuz Khan must make a strong appeal to a certain type of female mind.

He was forced to admit that some women, indeed many, would be as clay in

the hands of the man who possessed those long-lashed, magnetic eyes.

He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in her

white face, and pain; but no anger. Yes, Ormuz Khan was dangerous.

In what respect was he dangerous?

“Phil Abingdon!” Harley whispered, and, in the act of breathing the

name, laughed at his own folly.

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?”

“For dinner--exactly. I want everything to be there that was present on

the night of the tragedy; everything. Naturally you will have to place

different flowers in the vases, but I want to see the same vases. From

the soup tureen to the serviette rings, Benson, I wish you to duplicate

the dinner table as I remember it, paying particular attention to the

exact position of each article. Mrs. Howett will doubtless be able to

assist you in this.”

“Very good, sir,” said Benson--but his voice betokened bewilderment. “I

will see Mrs. Howett at once, sir.”

“Right. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Replacing the receiver, Harley took a bunch of keys from his pocket and,

crossing the office, locked the door. He then retired to his private

apartments and also locked the communicating door. A few moments later

he came out of “The Chancery Agency” and proceeded in the direction

of the Strand. Under cover of the wire-gauze curtain which veiled

the window he had carefully inspected the scene before emerging.

But although his eyes were keen and his sixth sense whispered

“Danger--danger!” he had failed to detect anything amiss.

This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence was

beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun to

play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly organized and

efficient system of surveillance with which he had ever come in contact.

Once, in the past, he had found himself pitted against the secret police

of Moscow, and hitherto he had counted their methods incomparable.

Unless he was the victim of an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian

spies had their peers in London.

As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir Charles,

Benson opened the door. “We have just finished, sir,” he said, as Harley

ran up the steps. “But Mrs. Howett would like to see you, sir.”

“Very good, Benson,” replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to the

butler. “I will see her in the dining room, please.”

Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which so

often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in

accordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to have

occupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set at

the head of the table.

Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly

about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to

the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic

little figure in black.

“Ah, Mrs. Howett,” said Harley; kindly, “please try to forgive me for

this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good

reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to have

everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enough

to tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night that

Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?”

“No, Mr. Harley,” was the answer, “that was what I was anxious to

explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful

night.”

“Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?”

“I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so.” The methodical

old lady illustrated her words. “I also had the dessert spoons changed.

You remember, Benson?”

Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver spoons

which he substituted for those already set upon the table.

“Anything else, Mrs. Howett?”

“The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your

arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid--a most

incompetent, impudent girl--altering the position of the serviettes. At

least, such was my impression.”

“Of the serviettes?” murmured Harley.

“She denied it,” continued the housekeeper, speaking with great

animation; “but she could give no explanation. It was the last straw.

She took too many liberties altogether.”

As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but Harley

was no longer listening.

“This is not the same table linen?” he asked, suddenly.

“Why, no, sir,” replied Benson. “Last week’s linen will be at the

laundry.”

“It has not gone yet,” interrupted Mrs. Howett. “I was making up the

list when you brought me Mr. Harley’s message.”

Paul Harley turned to her.

“May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that occasion,

Mrs. Howett?” he said. “My request must appear singular, I know, but I

assure you it is no idle one.”

Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had conceived a

sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away excitedly.

“Finally, Benson,” said Harley, “what else did you bring into the room

after Sir Charles and I had entered?”

“Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the soup

plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I can’t say

which were the actual plates used.”

Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware, and

gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. “Did the maid, Jones, handle any

of these?” he asked.

“No, sir”--emphatically. “She was preparing to bring the trout from the

kitchen.”

“But I saw her in the room.”

“She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast racks,

sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were never brought to

the table.”

“H’m. Has Jones left?”

“Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs. Howett

packed her off right away. She left the very next day after poor Sir

Charles died.”

“Where has she gone?”

“To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs. Howett

has the address.”

At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a number of

serviettes.

“This was the cloth,” she said, spreading it out, “but which of the

serviettes were used I cannot say.”

“Allow me to look,” replied Paul Harley.

One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in turn and

examining it critically.

“What have we here!” he exclaimed, presently. “Have blackberries been

served within the week, Mrs. Howett?”

“We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles--God rest

him--said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!” She turned to

Benson. “How is it I never noticed those stains, and what can have

caused them?”

The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all over

with dark purple spots.

CHAPTER XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED

Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed to

the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph in a silver

frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he induced a sort of

auto-hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to smile at him sadly. Then

a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant face. The soft outline changed,

subtly; the lips grew more full, became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened

and grew languorous. He found himself looking into the face of Ormuz

Khan.

“Damn it!” he muttered, awakened from his trance.

He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unaccountable chill. It might

have been caused by the mental picture which he had conjured up, or it

might be another of those mysterious warnings of which latterly he had

had so many without encountering any positive danger. He stood quite

still, listening.

Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment, and often enough asked

himself what he had expected to hear. It was from this room, on an

earlier occasion, that he had heard the ominous movements in the

apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.

“Benson,” he called, opening the library door. As the man came along the

hall: “I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my secretary,” he explained.

“There it is, on the table. When the district messenger, for whom you

telephoned, arrives, give him the parcel and the note. He is to accept

no other receipt than that of Mr. Innes.”

“Very good, sir.”

Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.

“Good day, sir,” said the butler.

“Good day, Benson,” called Harley, hurrying out to the waiting cab.

“Number 236 South Lambeth Road,” he directed the man.

Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the cushions heaving a long

sigh. The irksome period of inaction was ended. The cloud which for a

time had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He was by no means

sure that enlightenment had come in time, but at least he was in hot

pursuit of a tangible clue, and he must hope that it would lead him,

though tardily, to the heart of this labyrinth which concealed--what?

Which concealed something, or someone, known and feared as Fire-Tongue.

For the moment he must focus upon establishing, beyond query or doubt,

the fact that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from natural causes.

Premonitions, intuitions, beliefs resting upon a foundation of strange

dreams--these were helpful to himself, if properly employed, but they

were not legal evidence. This first point achieved, the motive of the

crime must be sought; and then--the criminal.

“One thing at a time,” Harley finally murmured.

Turning his head, he glanced back at the traffic in the street behind

him. The action was sheerly automatic. He had ceased to expect to

detect the presence of any pursuer. Yet he was convinced that his

every movement was closely watched. It was uncanny, unnerving, this

consciousness of invisible surveillance. Now, as he looked, he started.

The invisible had become the visible.

His cab was just on the point of turning on to the slope of Vauxhall

Bridge. And fifty yards behind, speeding along the Embankment, was a

small French car. The features of the driver he had no time to observe.

But, peering eagerly through the window, showed the dark face of the

passenger. The man’s nationality it was impossible to determine, but the

keen, almost savage interest, betrayed by the glittering black eyes, it

was equally impossible to mistake.

If the following car had turned on to the bridge, Harley, even yet,

might have entertained a certain doubt. But, mentally putting himself

in the pursuer’s place, he imagined himself detected and knew at once

exactly what he should do. Since this hypothetical course was actually

pursued by the other, Harley’s belief was confirmed.

Craning his neck, he saw the little French car turn abruptly and proceed

in the direction of Victoria Station. Instantly he acted.

Leaning out of the window he thrust a ten-shilling note into the

cabman’s hand. “Slow down, but don’t pull up,” he directed. “I am going

to jump out just as you pass that lorry ahead. Ten yards further on

stop. Get down and crank your engine, and then proceed slowly over the

bridge. I shall not want you again.”

“Right-oh, sir,” said the man, grinning broadly. As a result,

immediately he was afforded the necessary cover, Harley jumped from

the cab. The man reached back and closed the door, proceeding on his

leisurely way. Excepting the driver of the lorry, no one witnessed this

eccentric performance, and Harley, stepping on to the footpath, quietly

joined the stream of pedestrians and strolled slowly along.

He presently passed the stationary cab without giving any sign of

recognition to the dismounted driver. Then, a minute later, the

cab overtook him and was soon lost in the traffic ahead. Even as it

disappeared another cab went by rapidly.

Leaning forward in order to peer through the front window was the

dark-faced man whom he had detected on the Embankment!

“Quite correct,” murmured Harley, dryly. “Exactly what I should have

done.”

The spy, knowing himself discovered, had abandoned his own car in favour

of a passing taxicab, and in the latter had taken up the pursuit.

Paul Harley lighted a cigarette. Oddly enough, he was aware of a

feeling of great relief. In the first place, his sixth sense had been

triumphantly vindicated; and, in the second place, his hitherto shadowy

enemies, with their seemingly supernatural methods, had been unmasked.

At least they were human, almost incredibly clever, but of no more than

ordinary flesh and blood.

The contest had developed into open warfare. Harley’s accurate knowledge

of London had enabled him to locate No. 236 South Lambeth Road without

recourse to a guide, and now, walking on past the big gas works and the

railway station, he turned under the dark arches and pressed on to where

a row of unprepossessing dwellings extended in uniform ugliness from a

partly demolished building to a patch of waste ground.

That the house was being watched he did not doubt. In fact, he no longer

believed subterfuge to be of any avail. He was dealing with dangerously

accomplished criminals. How clever they were he had yet to learn; and it

was only his keen intuitive which at this juncture enabled him to score

a point over his cunning opponents.

He walked quite openly up the dilapidated steps to the door of No.

236, and was about to seize the dirty iron knocker when the door opened

suddenly and a girl came out. She was dressed neatly and wore a pseudo

fashionable hat from which a heavy figured veil depended so as almost

to hide her features. She was carrying a bulging cane grip secured by a

brown leather strap.

Seeing Harley on the step, she paused for a moment, then, recovering

herself:

“Ellen!” she shouted down the dim passageway revealed by the opening of

the door. “Somebody to see you.”

Leaving the door open, she hurried past the visitor with averted face.

It was well done, and, thus disguised by the thick veil, another man

than Paul Harley might have failed to recognize one of whom he had never

had more than an imperfect glimpse. But if Paul Harley’s memory did not

avail him greatly, his unerring instinct never failed.

He grasped the girl’s arm. “One moment, Miss Jones,” he said, quietly,

“it is you I am here to see!”

The girl turned angrily, snatching her arm from his grasp. “You’ve made

a mistake, haven’t you?” she cried, furiously. “I don’t know you and I

don’t want to!”

“Be good enough to step inside again. Don’t make a scene. If you behave

yourself, you have nothing to fear. But I want to talk to you.”

He extended his arm to detain her. But she thrust it aside. “My boy’s

waiting round the corner!” she said, viciously. “Just see what he’ll do

when I tell him!”

“Step inside,” repeated Harley, quietly. “Or accompany me to Kennington

Lane Police Station--whichever you think would be the more amusing.”

“What d’you mean!” blustered the girl. “You can’t kid me. I haven’t done

anything.”

“Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer my questions--either here

or at the station. Which shall it be?”

He had realized the facts of the situation from the moment when the

girl had made her sudden appearance, and he knew that his only chance of

defeating his cunning opponents was to frighten her. Delicate measures

would be wasted upon such a character. But even as the girl, flinging

herself sullenly about, returned into the passage, he found himself

admiring the resourcefulness of his unknown enemies.

A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared from somewhere and

stared apathetically at Harley.

Addressing the angry girl: “Another o’ your flames, Polly?” she inquired

in a dull voice. “Has he made you change your mind already?”

The girl addressed as “Polly” dropped her grip on the floor and, banging

open a door, entered a shabby little sitting room, followed by Harley.

Dropping onto a ragged couch, she stared obstinately out of the dirty

window.

“Excuse me, madam, for intruding,” said Harley to the woman with the

baby, “but Polly has some information of use to the police. Oh, don’t be

alarmed. She has committed no crime. I shall only detain her for a few

minutes.”

He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room door.

“Now, young woman,” he said, sternly, adopting this official manner of

his friend, Inspector Wessex, “I am going to give you one warning, and

one only. Although I don’t think you know it, you have got mixed up with

a gang of crooks. Play the game with me, and I’ll stand by you. Try any

funny business and you’ll go to jail.”

The official manner had its effect. Miss Jones looked sharply across at

the speaker. “I haven’t done anything,” she said, sullenly.

Paul Harley advanced and stood over her. “What about the trick with the

serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon’s?” he asked, speaking the words in

slow and deliberate fashion.

The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate

courage. “What about it?” she inquired, but her voice had changed.

“Who made you do it?”

“What’s that to you?”

Paul Harley drew out his watch, glanced at the face, and returned the

timepiece to his pocket. “I have warned you,” he said. “In exactly three

minutes’ time I shall put you under arrest.”

The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her face, looked up at

him. At last he had broken down her obstinate resistance. Already he had

noted the coarse, elemental formation of her hands, and now, the veil

removed, he saw that she belonged to a type of character often found

in Wales and closely duplicated in certain parts of London. There was

a curious flatness of feature and prominence of upper jaw singularly

reminiscent of the primitive Briton. Withal the girl was not

unprepossessing in her coarse way. Utter stupidity and dogged courage

are the outstanding characteristics of this type. But fear of the law is

strong within them.

“Don’t arrest me,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good. In the first place, then, where were you going when I came here?”

“To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station.”

“What is his name?”

“I’m not going to tell you. What’s he done?”

“He has done murder. What is his name?”

“My God!” whispered the girl, and her face blanched swiftly. “Murder!

I--I can’t tell you his name--”

“You mean you won’t?”

She did not answer.

“He is a very dark man,” continued Harley “with black eyes. He is a

Hindu.”

The girl stared straight before her, dumbly.

“Answer me!” shouted Harley.

“Yes--yes! He is a foreigner.”

“A Hindu?”

“I think so.”

“He was here five minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he going to take you?”

“I don’t know. He said he could put me in a good job out of London. We

had only ten minutes to catch the train. He’s gone to get the tickets.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In the Green Park.”

“When?”

“About a month ago.”

“Was he going to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do to the serviettes on the night Sir Charles died?”

“Oh, my God! I didn’t do anything to hurt him--I didn’t do anything to

hurt him!”

“Answer me.”

“Sidney--”

“Oh, he called himself Sidney, did he? It isn’t his name. But go on.”

“He asked me to get one of the serviettes, with the ring, and to lend it

to him.”

“You did this?”

“Yes. But he brought it back.”

“When?”

“The afternoon--”

“Before Sir Charles’s death? Yes. Go on. What did he tell you to do with

this serviette?”

“It--was in a box. He said I was not to open the box until I put the

serviette on the table, and that it had to be put by Sir Charles’s

plate. It had to be put there just before the meal began.”

“What else?”

“I had to burn the box.”

“Well?”

“That night I couldn’t see how it was to be done. Benson had laid the

dinner table and Mrs. Howett was pottering about. Then, when I thought

I had my chance, Sir Charles sat down in the dining room and began to

read. He was still there and I had the box hidden in the hall stand, all

ready, when Sidney--rang up.”

“Rang you up?”

“Yes. We had arranged it. He said he was my brother. I had to tell him I

couldn’t do it.”

“Yes!”

“He said: ‘You must.’ I told him Sir Charles was in the dining room, and

he said: ‘I’ll get him away. Directly he goes, don’t fail to do what I

told you.’”

“And then?”

“Another ‘phone call came--for Sir Charles. I knew who it was, because I

had told Sidney about the case Sir Charles was attending in the square.

When Sir Charles went out I changed the serviettes. Mrs. Howett found me

in the dining room and played hell. But afterward I managed to burn the

box in the kitchen. That’s all I know. What harm was there?”

“Harm enough!” said Harley, grimly. “And now--what was it that ‘Sidney’

stole from Sir Charles’s bureau in the study?”

The girl started and bit her lip convulsively. “It wasn’t stealing,” she

muttered. “It wasn’t worth anything.”

“Answer me. What did he take?”

“He took nothing.”

“For the last time: answer.”

“It wasn’t Sidney who took it. I took it.”

“You took what?”

“A paper.”

“You mean that you stole Sir Charles’s keys and opened his bureau?”

“There was no stealing. He was out and they were lying on his dressing

table. Sidney had told me to do it the first time I got a chance.”

“What had he told you to do?”

“To search through Sir Charles’s papers and see if there was anything

with the word ‘Fire-Tongue’ in it!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Harley, a note of suppressed triumph in his voice. “Go

on.”

“There was only one paper about it,” continued the girl, now speaking

rapidly, “or only one that I could find. I put the bureau straight again

and took this paper to Sidney.”

“But you must have read the paper?”

“Only a bit of it. When I came to the word ‘Fire-Tongue,’ I didn’t read

any more.”

“What was it about--the part you did read?”

“The beginning was all about India. I couldn’t understand it. I jumped

a whole lot. I hadn’t much time and I was afraid Mrs. Howett would find

me. Then, further on, I came to ‘Fire-Tongue’.”

“But what did it say about ‘Fire-Tongue’?”

“I couldn’t make it out, sir. Oh, indeed I’m telling you the truth! It

seemed to me that Fire-Tongue was some sort of mark.”

“Mark?”

“Yes--a mark Sir Charles had seen in India, and then again in London--”

“In London! Where in London?”

“On someone’s arm.”

“What! Tell me the name of this person!”

“I can’t remember, sir! Oh, truly I can’t.”

“Was the name mentioned?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Armand?”

“No.”

“Ormond?”

“No.”

“Anything like Ormond?”

The girl shook her head.

“It was not Ormuz Khan?”

“No. I am sure it wasn’t.”

Paul Harley’s expression underwent a sudden change. “Was it Brown?” he

asked.

She hesitated. “I believe it did begin with a B,” she admitted.

“Was it Brunn?”

“No! I remember, sir. It was Brinn!”

“Good God!” muttered Harley. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Do you know any one of that name?”

“No, sir.”

“And is this positively all you remember?”

“On my oath, it is.”

“How often have you seen Sidney since your dismissal?”

“I saw him on the morning I left.”

“And then not again until to-day?”

“No.”

“Does he live in London?”

“No. He is a valet to a gentleman who lives in the country.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“What is the name of the place?”

“I don’t know.”

“Once again--what is the name of the place?”

The girl bit her lip.

“Answer!” shouted Harley.

“I swear, sir,” cried the girl, beginning suddenly to sob, “that I don’t

know! Oh, please let me go! I swear I have told you all I know!”

“Good!”

Paul Harley glanced at his watch, crossed the room, and opened the door.

He turned. “You can go now,” he said. “But I don’t think you will find

Sidney waiting!”

It wanted only three minutes to midnight, and Innes, rather haggard and

anxious-eyed, was pacing Paul Harley’s private office when the ‘phone

bell rang. Eagerly he took up the receiver.

“Hullo!” came a voice. “That you, Innes?”

“Mr. Harley!” cried Innes. “Thank God you are safe! I was growing

desperately anxious!”

“I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest corners of

my life! Listen: Get Wessex! If he’s off duty, get Burton. Tell him to

bring--”

The voice ceased.

“Hullo!--Mr. Harley!” called Innes. “Mr. Harley!”

A faint cry answered him. He distinctly heard the sound of a fall. Then

the other receiver was replaced on the hook.

“Merciful Heavens!” whispered Innes. “What has happened? Where was he

speaking from? What can I do?”

CHAPTER XIII. NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR

It was close upon noon, but Nicol Brinn had not yet left his chambers.

From that large window which overlooked Piccadilly he surveyed the

prospect with dull, lack-lustre eyes. His morning attire was at least as

tightly fitting as that which he favoured in the evening, and now, hands

clasped behind his back and an unlighted cigar held firmly in the left

corner of his mouth, he gazed across the park with a dreamy and vacant

regard. One very familiar with this strange and taciturn man might have

observed that his sallow features looked even more gaunt than usual.

But for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert

physiognomist must have sought in vain.

Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian leopards

stared glassily across the room. The flying lemur continued apparently

to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the head of the tigress where

she crouched upon her near-by pedestal. The death masks grinned; the

Egyptian priestess smiled. And Nicol Brinn, expressionless, watched the

traffic in Piccadilly.

There came a knock at the door.

“In,” said Nicol Brinn.

Hoskins, his manservant, entered: “Detective Inspector Wessex would like

to see you, sir.”

Nicol Brinn did not turn around. “In,” he repeated.

Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval, ushered into

the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland Yard man of the best

type. For Detective Inspector Wessex no less an authority than Paul

Harley had predicted a brilliant future, and since he had attained to

his present rank while still a comparatively young man, the prophecy

of the celebrated private investigator was likely to be realized. Nicol

Brinn turned and bowed in the direction of a large armchair.

“Pray sit down, Inspector,” he said.

The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor welcome, nor

any other sentiment whatever.

Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler hat upon

the carpet, and sat down in the armchair. Nicol Brinn seated himself

upon a settee over which was draped a very fine piece of Persian

tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes which expressed nothing

but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but which, as a matter of fact,

photographed the personality of the man indelibly upon that keen brain.

Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not appear to be

quite at ease.

“What is it?” inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded to light his cigar.

“Well, sir,” said the detective, frankly, “it’s a mighty awkward

business, and I don’t know just how to approach it.”

“Shortest way,” drawled Nicol Brinn. “Don’t study me.”

“Thanks,” said Wessex, “I’ll do my best. It’s like this”--he stared

frankly at the impassive face: “Where is Mr. Paul Harley?”

Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar meditatively for a

moment and then replaced it in the right and not in the left corner of

his mouth. Even to the trained eye of the detective inspector he seemed

to be quite unmoved, but one who knew him well would have recognized

that this simple action betokened suppressed excitement.

“He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night,” replied the

American. “I had never seen him before and I have never seen him since.”

“Sure?”

“Quite.”

“Could you swear to it before a jury?”

“You seem to doubt my word.”

Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. “Mr. Brinn,” he said, “I am in an

awkward corner. I know you for a man with a fine sporting reputation,

and therefore I don’t doubt your word. But Mr. Paul Harley disappeared

last night.”

At last Nicol Brinn was moved. A second time he took the cigar from his

mouth, gazed at the end reflectively, and then hurled the cigar across

the room into the hearth. He stood up, walked to a window, and stared

out. “Just sit quiet a minute,” came the toneless voice. “You’ve hit me

harder than you know. I want to think it out.”

At the back of the tall, slim figure Detective Inspector Wessex stared

with a sort of wonder. Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati was a conundrum

which he found himself unable to catalogue, although in his gallery of

queer characters were many eccentric and peculiar. If Nicol Brinn should

prove to be crooked, then automatically he became insane. This Wessex

had reasoned out even before he had set eyes upon the celebrated

American traveller. His very first glimpse of Nicol Brinn had confirmed

his reasoning, except that the cool, calm strength of the man had done

much to upset the theory of lunacy.

Followed an interval of unbroken silence. Not even the ticking of a

clock could be heard in that long, singularly furnished apartment. Then,

as the detective continued to gaze upon the back of Mr. Nicol Brinn,

suddenly the latter turned.

“Detective Inspector Wessex,” he said, “there has been a cloud hanging

over my head for seven years. That cloud is going to burst very soon,

and it looks as if it were going to do damage.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied the detective, bluntly. “But I

have been put in charge of the most extraordinary case that has ever

come my way and I’ll ask you to make yourself as clear as possible.”

“I’ll do all I can,” Nicol Brinn assured him. “But first tell me

something: Why have you come to me for information in respect to Mr.

Paul Harley?”

“I’ll answer your question,” said Wessex, and the fact did not escape

the keen observing power of Nicol Brinn that the detective’s manner had

grown guarded. “He informed Mr. Innes, his secretary, before setting

out, that he was coming here to your chambers.”

Nicol Brinn stared blankly at the speaker. “He told him that? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“That he was coming here?”

“He did.”

Nicol Brinn sat down again upon the settee. “Detective Inspector,” said

he, “I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that I last saw Mr.

Paul Harley at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night. Since then, not only have

I not seen him, but I have received no communication from him.”

The keen glance of the detective met and challenged the dull glance of

the speaker. “I accept your word, sir,” said Wessex, finally, and he

sighed and scratched his chin in the manner of a man hopelessly puzzled.

Silence fell again. The muted sounds of Piccadilly became audible in the

stillness. Cabs and cars rolled by below, their occupants all unaware

of the fact that in that long, museum-like room above their heads lay the

key to a tragedy and the clue to a mystery.

“Look here, sir,” said the detective, suddenly, “the result of Mr. Paul

Harley’s investigations right up to date has been placed in my hands,

together with all his notes. I wonder if you realize the fact that,

supposing Mr. Harley does not return, I am in repossession of sufficient

evidence to justify me in putting you under arrest?”

“I see your point quite clearly,” replied Nicol Brinn. “I have seen my

danger since the evening that Mr. Paul Harley walked into this room: but

I’ll confess I did not anticipate this particular development.”

“To get right down to business,” said Wessex, “if Mr. Paul Harley did

not come here, where, in your idea, did he go?”

Nicol Brinn considered the speaker meditatively. “If I knew that,” said

he, “maybe I could help. I told him here in this very room that the pair

of us were walking on the edge of hell. I don’t like to say it, and you

don’t know all it means, but in my opinion he has taken a step too far.”

Detective Inspector Wessex stood up impatiently. “You have already

talked in that strain to Mr. Harley,” he said, a bit brusquely. “Mr.

Innes has reported something of the conversation to me. But I must

ask you to remember that, whereas Mr. Paul Harley is an unofficial

investigator, I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department,

and figures of speech are of no use to me. I want facts. I want plain

speaking. I ask you for help and you answer in parables. Now perhaps I

am saying too much, and perhaps I am not, but that Mr. Harley was right

in what he believed, the circumstances of his present disappearance go

to prove. He learned too much about something called Fire-Tongue.”

Wessex spoke the word challengingly, staring straight into the eyes of

Nicol Brinn, but the latter gave no sign, and Wessex, concealing his

disappointment, continued: “You know more about Fire-Tongue than you

ever told Mr. Paul Harley. All you know I have got to know. Mr. Harley

has been kidnapped, perhaps done to death.”

“Why do you say so?” asked Nicol Brinn, rapidly.

“Because I know it is so. It does not matter how I know.”

“You are certain that his absence is not voluntary?”

“We have definite evidence to that effect.”

“I don’t expect you to be frank with me, Detective Inspector, but I’ll

be as frank with you as I can be. I haven’t the slightest idea in the

world where Mr. Harley is. But I have information which, if I knew where

he was, would quite possibly enable me to rescue him.”

“Provided he is alive!” added Wessex, angrily.

“What leads you to suppose that he is not?”

“If he is alive, he is a prisoner.”

“Good God!” said Nicol Brinn in a low voice. “It has come.” He took a

step toward the detective. “Mr. Wessex,” he continued, “I don’t tell you

to do whatever your duty indicates; I know you will do it. But in the

interests of everybody concerned I have a request to make. Have me

watched if you like--I suppose that’s automatic. But whatever happens,

and wherever your suspicions point, give me twenty-four hours. As I

think you can see, I am a man who thinks slowly, but moves with a rush.

You can believe me or not, but I am even more anxious than you are to

see this thing through. You think I know what lies back of it all, and I

don’t say that you are not right. But one thing you don’t know, and that

thing I can’t tell you. In twenty-four hours I might be able to tell

you. Whatever happens, even if poor Harley is found dead, don’t hamper

my movements between now and this time tomorrow.”

Wessex, who had been watching the speaker intently, suddenly held out

his hand. “It’s a bet!” he said. “It’s my case, and I’ll conduct it in

my own way.”

“Mr. Wessex,” replied Nicol Brinn, taking the extended hand, “I think

you are a clever man. There are questions you would like to ask me, and

there are questions I would like to ask you. But we both realize the

facts of the situation, and we are both silent. One thing I’ll say: You

are in the deadliest peril you have ever known. Be careful. Believe me I

mean it. Be very careful.”

CHAPTER XIV. WESSEX GETS BUSY

Innes rose from the chair usually occupied by Paul Harley as Detective

Inspector Wessex, with a very blank face, walked into the office. Innes

looked haggard and exhibited unmistakable signs of anxiety. Since he

had received that dramatic telephone message from his chief he had not

spared himself for a moment. The official machinery of Scotland Yard was

at work endeavouring to trace the missing man, but since it had proved

impossible to find out from where the message had been sent, the

investigation was handicapped at the very outset. Close inquiries at the

Savoy Hotel had shown that Harley had not been there. Wessex, who was a

thorough artist within his limitations, had satisfied himself that none

of the callers who had asked for Ormuz Khan, and no one who had loitered

about the lobbies, could possibly have been even a disguised Paul

Harley.

To Inspector Wessex the lines along which Paul Harley was operating

remained a matter of profound amazement and mystification. His interview

with Mr. Nicol Brinn had only served to baffle him more hopelessly than

ever. The nature of Paul Harley’s inquiries--inquiries which, presumably

from the death of Sir Charles Abingdon, had led him to investigate the

movements of two persons of international repute, neither apparently

having even the most remote connection with anything crooked--was a

conundrum for the answer to which the detective inspector sought in

vain.

“I can see you have no news,” said Innes, dully.

“To be perfectly honest,” replied Wessex, “I feel like a man who is

walking in his sleep. Except for the extraordinary words uttered by

the late Sir Charles Abingdon, I fail to see that there is any possible

connection between his death and Mr. Nicol Brinn. I simply can’t fathom

what Mr. Harley was working upon. To my mind there is not the slightest

evidence of foul play in the case. There is no motive; apart from which,

there is absolutely no link.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Innes, slowly, “you know the chief, and

therefore you know as well as I do that he would not have instructed

me to communicate with you unless he had definite evidence in his

possession. It is perfectly clear that he was interrupted in the act of

telephoning. He was literally dragged away from the instrument.”

“I agree,” said Wessex. “He had got into a tight corner somewhere right

enough. But where does Nicol Brinn come in?”

“How did he receive your communication?”

“Oh, it took him fairly between the eyes. There is no denying that. He

knows something.”

“What he knows,” said Innes, slowly, “is what Mr. Harley learned last

night, and what he fears is what has actually befallen the chief.”

Detective Inspector Wessex stood beside the Burmese cabinet, restlessly

drumming his fingers upon its lacquered surface. “I am grateful for one

thing,” he said. “The press has not got hold of this story.”

“They need never get hold of it if you are moderately careful.”

“For several reasons I am going to be more than moderately careful.

Whatever Fire-Tongue may be, its other name is sudden death! It’s a

devil of a business; a perfect nightmare. But--” he paused--

“I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that parcel of

linen to the analyst.”

“The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not engaged

upon any wild-goose chase.”

“By heavens!” Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he reached for

his hat, “that gives me an idea!”

“The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the

letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley evidently

made his first call there! I’m off, sir! The trail starts from that

house!”

Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an expression of despair

upon his face, Detective Inspector Wessex set out. He blamed himself for

wasting time upon the obvious, for concentrating too closely upon the

clue given by Harley’s last words to Innes before leaving the office

in Chancery Lane. It was poor workmanship. He had hoped to take a short

cut, and it had proved, as usual, to be a long one. Now, as he sat in a

laggard cab feeling that every minute wasted might be a matter of life

and death, he suddenly became conscious of personal anxiety. He was a

courageous, indeed a fearless, man, and he was subconsciously surprised

to find himself repeating the words of Nicol Brinn: “Be careful--be very

careful!” With all the ardour of the professional, he longed to find a

clue which should lead him to the heart of the mystery.

Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Harley’s case to date, and

Detective Inspector Wessex, although he had not admitted the fact, had

nevertheless recognized that from start to finish the thing did not

offer one single line of inquiry which he would have been capable of

following up. That Paul Harley had found material to work upon, had

somehow picked up a definite clue from this cloudy maze, earned the

envious admiration of the Scotland Yard man.

Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss Abingdon, and was shown

by the butler into a charmingly furnished little sitting room which

was deeply impressed with the personality of its dainty owner. It was

essentially and delightfully feminine. Yet in the decorations and in the

arrangement of the furniture there was a note of independence which was

almost a note of defiance. Phyllis Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic

figure in her black dress, rose to greet the inspector.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Abingdon,” he said, kindly. “My visit does not

concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps you might be

able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley.”

Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but even

before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort of shock that

he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil Abingdon’s eyes seemed

to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite still, twisting his card

between her supple fingers.

“Mr. Harley!” she whispered.

“I did not want to alarm you,” said the detective, guiltily, “but--” He

stopped, at a loss for words.

“Has something happened to him?”

“I am sorry if I have alarmed you,” he assured her, “but there is some

doubt respecting Mr. Harley’s present whereabouts. Have you any idea

where he went when he left this house yesterday?”

“Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well.”

“Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in.” Phil Abingdon

spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. “He went to call upon

Jones, our late parlourmaid.”

“Late parlourmaid?” echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance.”

“Something to do with a parcel which he sent away from here to the

analyst?”

“Yes! I have been wondering whatever it could be. In fact, I rang up

his office this morning, but learned that he was out. It was a serviette

which he took away. Did you know that?”

“I did know it, Miss Abingdon. I called upon the analyst. I understand

you were out when Mr. Harley came. May I ask who interviewed him?”

“He saw Benson and Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper.”

“May I also see them?”

“Yes, with pleasure. But please tell me”--Phil Abingdon looked up at him

pleadingly--“do you think something--something dreadful has happened to

Mr. Harley?”

“Don’t alarm yourself unduly,” said Wessex. “I hope before the day is

over to be in touch with him.”

As a matter of fact, he had no such hope. It was a lie intended to

console the girl, to whom the news of Harley’s disappearance seemed to

have come as a terrible blow. More and more Wessex found himself to be

groping in the dark. And when, in response to the ringing of the bell,

Benson came in and repeated what had taken place on the previous day,

the detective’s state of mystification grew even more profound. As a

matter of routine rather than with any hope of learning anything useful,

he interviewed Mrs. Howett; but the statement of the voluble old lady

gave no clue which Wessex could perceive to possess the slightest value.

Both witnesses having been dismissed, he turned again to Phil Abingdon,

who had been sitting watching him with a pathetic light of hope in her

eyes throughout his examination of the butler and Mrs. Howett.

“The next step is clear enough,” he said, brightly. “I am off to South

Lambeth Road. The woman Jones is the link we are looking for.”

“But the link with what, Mr. Wessex?” asked Phil Abingdon. “What is it

all about?--what does it all mean?”

“The link with Mr. Paul Harley,” replied Wessex. He moved toward the

door.

“But won’t you tell me something more before you go?” said the girl,

beseechingly. “I--I--feel responsible if anything has happened to Mr.

Harley. Please be frank with me. Are you afraid he is--in danger?”

“Well, miss,” replied the detective, haltingly, “he rang up his

secretary, Mr. Innes, last night--we don’t know where from--and admitted

that he was in a rather tight corner. I don’t believe for a moment that

he is in actual danger, but he probably has--” again he hesitated--“good

reasons of his own for remaining absent at present.”

Phil Abingdon looked at him doubtingly. “I am almost afraid to ask you,”

she said in a low voice, “but--if you hear anything, will you ring me

up?”

“I promise to do so.”

Chartering a more promising-looking cab than that in which he had come,

Detective Inspector Wessex proceeded to 236 South Lambeth Road. He had

knocked several times before the door was opened by the woman to whom

the girl Jones had called on the occasion of Harley’s visit.

“I am a police officer,” said the detective inspector, “and I have

called to see a woman named Jones, formerly in the employ of Sir Charles

Abingdon.”

“Polly’s gone,” was the toneless reply.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“She went away last night to a job in the country.”

“What time last night?”

“I can’t remember the time. Just after a gentleman had called here to

see her.”

“Someone from the police?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to be very frightened.”

“Were you present when he interviewed her?”

“No.”

“After he had gone, what did Polly do?”

“Sat and cried for about half an hour, then Sidney came for her.”

“Sidney?”

“Her boy--the latest one.”

“Describe Sidney.”

“A dark fellow, foreign.”

“French--German?”

“No. A sort of Indian, like.”

“Indian?” snapped Wessex. “What do you mean by Indian?”

“Very dark,” replied the woman without emotion, swinging a baby she

held to and fro in a methodical way which the detective found highly

irritating.

“You mean a native of India?”

“Yes, I should think so. I never noticed him much. Polly has so many.”

“How long has she known this man?”

“Only a month or so, but she is crazy about him.”

“And when he came last night she went away with him?”

“Yes. She was all ready to go before the other gentleman called. He must

have told her something which made her think it was all off, and she was

crazy with joy when Sidney turned up. She had all her things packed, and

off she went.”

Experience had taught Detective Inspector Wessex to recognize the truth

when he met it, and he did not doubt the statement of the woman with

the baby. “Can you give me any idea where this man Sidney came from?” he

asked.

“I am afraid I can’t,” replied the listless voice. “He was in the

service of some gentleman in the country; that’s all I know about him.”

“Did Polly leave no address to which letters were to be forwarded?”

“No; she said she would write.”

“One other point,” said Wessex, and he looked hard into the woman’s

face: “What do you know about Fire-Tongue?”

He was answered by a stare of blank stupidity.

“You heard me?”

“Yes, I heard you, but I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Quick decisions are required from every member of the Criminal

Investigation Department, and Detective Inspector Wessex came to one

now.

“That will do for the present,” he said, turned, and ran down the steps

to the waiting cab.

CHAPTER XV. NAIDA

Dusk was falling that evening. Gaily lighted cars offering glimpses of

women in elaborate toilets and of their black-coated and white-shirted

cavaliers thronged Piccadilly, bound for theatre or restaurant. The

workaday shutters were pulled down, and the night life of London

had commenced. The West End was in possession of an army of pleasure

seekers, but Nicol Brinn was not among their ranks. Wearing his

tightly-buttoned dinner jacket, he stood, hands clasped behind him,

staring out of the window as Detective Inspector Wessex had found him at

noon. Only one who knew him very well could have detected the fact that

anxiety was written upon that Sioux-like face. His gaze seemed to be

directed, not so much upon the fading prospect of the park, as downward,

upon the moving multitude in the street below. Came a subdued knocking

at the door.

“In,” said Nicol Brinn.

Hoskins, the neat manservant, entered. “A lady to see you, sir.”

Nicol Brinn turned in a flash. For one fleeting instant the dynamic

force beneath the placid surface exhibited itself in every line of his

gaunt face. He was transfigured; he was a man of monstrous energy, of

tremendous enthusiasm. Then the enthusiasm vanished. He was a creature

of stone again; the familiar and taciturn Nicol Brinn, known and puzzled

over in the club lands of the world.

“Name?”

“She gave none.”

“English?”

“No, sir, a foreign lady.”

“In.”

Hoskins having retired, and having silently closed the door, Nicol Brinn

did an extraordinary thing, a thing which none of his friends in London,

Paris, or New York would ever have supposed him capable of doing. He

raised his clenched hands. “Please God she has come,” he whispered.

“Dare I believe it? Dare I believe it?”

The door was opened again, and Hoskins, standing just inside, announced:

“The lady to see you, sir.”

He stepped aside and bowed as a tall, slender woman entered the room.

She wore a long wrap trimmed with fur, the collar turned up about her

face. Three steps forward she took and stopped. Hoskins withdrew and

closed the door.

At that, while Nicol Brinn watched her with completely transfigured

features, the woman allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders, and,

raising her head, extended both her hands, uttering a subdued cry of

greeting that was almost a sob. She was dark, with the darkness of

the East, but beautiful with a beauty that was tragic. Her eyes were

glorious wells of sadness, seeming to mirror a soul that had known a

hundred ages. Withal she had the figure of a girl, slender and supple,

possessing the poetic grace and poetry of movement born only in the

Orient.

“Naida!” breathed Nicol Brinn, huskily. “Naida!”

His high voice had softened, had grown tremulous. He extended his hands

with a groping movement The woman laughed shudderingly.

Her cloak lying forgotten upon the carpet, she advanced toward him.

She wore a robe that was distinctly Oriental without being in the

slightest degree barbaric. Her skin was strangely fair, and jewels

sparkled upon her fingers. She conjured up dreams of the perfumed luxury

of the East, and was a figure to fire the imagination. But Nicol Brinn

seemed incapable of movement; his body was inert, but his eyes were on

fire. Into the woman’s face had come anxiety that was purely feminine.

“Oh, my big American sweetheart,” she whispered, and, approaching him

with a sort of timidity, laid her little hands upon his arm. “Do you

still think I am beautiful?”

“Beautiful!”

No man could have recognized the voice of Nicol Brinn. Suddenly his arms

were about her like bands of iron, and with a long, wondering sigh she

lay back looking up into his face, while he gazed hungrily into her

eyes. His lips had almost met hers when softly, almost inaudibly, she

sighed: “Nicol!”

She pronounced the name queerly, giving to i the value of ee, and almost

dropping the last letter entirely.

Their lips met, and for a moment they clung together, this woman of

the East and man of the West, in utter transgression of that law which

England’s poet has laid down. It was a reunion speaking of a love so

deep as to be sacred.

Lifting the woman in his arms lightly as a baby, he carried her to the

settee between the two high windows and placed her there amid Oriental

cushions, where she looked like an Eastern queen. He knelt at her feet

and, holding both her hands, looked into her face with that wondering

expression in which there was something incredulous and something

sorrowful; a look of great and selfless tenderness. The face of Naida

was lighted up, and her big eyes filled with tears. Disengaging one of

her jewelled hands, she ruffled Nicol Brinn’s hair.

“My Nicol,” she said, tenderly. “Have I changed so much?”

Her accent was quaint and fascinating, but her voice was very musical.

To the man who knelt at her feet it was the sweetest music in the world.

“Naida,” he whispered. “Naida. Even yet I dare not believe that you are

here.”

“You knew I would come?”

“How was I to know that you would see my message?”

She opened her closed left hand and smoothed out a scrap of torn paper

which she held there. It was from the “Agony” column of that day’s

Times.

N. November 23, 1913. N. B. See Telephone Directory.

“I told you long, long ago that I would come if ever you wanted me.”

“Long, long ago,” echoed Nicol Brinn. “To me it has seemed a century;

to-night it seems a day.”

He watched her with a deep and tireless content. Presently her eyes

fell. “Sit here beside me,” she said. “I have not long to be here. Put

your arms round me. I have something to tell you.”

He seated himself beside her on the settee, and held her close. “My

Naida!” he breathed softly.

“Ah, no, no!” she entreated. “Do you want to break my heart?”

He suddenly released her, clenched his big hands, and stared down at the

carpet. “You have broken mine.”

Impulsively Naida threw her arms around his neck, coiling herself up

lithely and characteristically beside him.

“My big sweetheart,” she whispered, crooningly. “Don’t say it--don’t say

it.”

“I have said it. It is true.”

Turning, fiercely he seized her. “I won’t let you go!” he cried, and

there was a strange light in his eyes. “Before I was helpless, now I am

not. This time you have come to me, and you shall stay.”

She shrank away from him terrified, wild-eyed. “Oh, you forget, you

forget!”

“For seven years I have tried to forget. I have been mad, but to-night I

am sane.”

“I trusted you, I trusted you!” she moaned.

Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth grimly for a moment, and then, holding

her averted face very close to his own, he began to speak in a low,

monotonous voice. “For seven years,” he said, “I have tried to die,

because without you I did not care to live. I have gone into the bad

lands of the world and into the worst spots of those bad lands. Night

and day your eyes have watched me, and I have wakened from dreams of

your kisses and gone out to court murder. I have earned the reputation

of being something more than human, but I am not. I had everything that

life could give me except you. Now I have got you, and I am going to

keep you.”

Naida began to weep silently. The low, even voice of Nicol Brinn ceased.

He could feel her quivering in his grasp; and, as she sobbed, slowly,

slowly the fierce light faded from his eyes.

“Naida, my Naida, forgive me,” he whispered.

She raised her face, looking up to him pathetically. “I came to you, I

came to you,” she moaned. “I promised long ago that I would come. What

use is it, all this? You know, you know! Kill me if you like. How often

have I asked you to kill me. It would be sweet to die in your arms. But

what use to talk so? You are in great danger or you would not have asked

me to come. If you don’t know it, I tell you--you are in great danger.”

Nicol Brinn released her, stood up, and began slowly to pace about the

room. He deliberately averted his gaze from the settee. “Something has

happened,” he began, “which has changed everything. Because you are here

I know that--someone else is here.”

He was answered by a shuddering sigh, but he did not glance in the

direction of the settee.

“In India I respected what you told me. Because you were strong, I loved

you the more. Here in England I can no longer respect the accomplice of

assassins.”

“Assassins? What, is this something new?”

“With a man’s religion, however bloodthirsty it may be, I don’t quarrel

so long as he sincerely believes in it. But for private assassination

I have no time and no sympathy.” It was the old Nicol Brinn who was

speaking, coldly and incisively. “That--something we both know about

ever moved away from those Indian hills was a possibility I had never

considered. When it was suddenly brought home to me that you, you, might

be here in London, I almost went mad. But the thing that made me realize

it was a horrible thing, a black, dastardly thing. See here.”

He turned and crossed to where the woman was crouching, watching him

with wide-open, fearful eyes. He took both her hands and looked grimly

into her face. “For seven years I have walked around with a silent

tongue and a broken heart. All that is finished. I am going to speak.”

“Ah, no, no!” She was on her feet, her face a mask of tragedy. “You

swore to me, you swore to me!”

“No oath holds good in the face of murder.”

“Is that why you bring me here? Is that what your message means?”

“My message means that because of--the thing you know about--I am

suspected of the murder.”

“You? You?”

“Yes, I, I! Good God! when I realize what your presence here means, I

wish more than ever that I had succeeded in finding death.”

“Please don’t say it,” came a soft, pleading voice. “What can I do? What

do you want me to do?”

“I want you to release me from that vow made seven years ago.”

Naida uttered a stifled cry. “How is it possible? You understand that it

is not possible.”

Nicol Brinn seized her by the shoulders. “Is it possible for me to

remain silent while men are murdered here in a civilized country?”

“Oh,” moaned Naida, “what can I do, what can I do?”

“Give me permission to speak and stay here. Leave the rest to me.”

“You know I cannot stay, my Nicol,” she replied, sadly.

“But,” he said with deliberate slowness, “I won’t let you go.”

“You must let me go. Already I have been here too long.”

He threw his arms around her and crushed her against him fiercely.

“Never again,” he said. “Never again.”

She pressed her little hands against his shoulders.

“Listen! Oh, listen!”

“I shall listen to nothing.”

“But you must--you must! I want to make you understand something. This

morning I see your note in the papers. Every day, every day for seven

whole long years, wherever I have been, I have looked. In the papers of

India. Sometimes in the papers of France, of England.”

“I never even dreamed that you left India,” said Nicol Brinn, hoarsely.

“It was through the Times of India that I said I would communicate with

you.”

“Once we never left India. Now we do--sometimes. But listen. I prepared

to come when--he--”

Nicol Brinn’s clasp of Naida tightened cruelly.

“Oh, you hurt me!” she moaned. “Please let me speak. He gave me your

name and told me to bring you!”

“What! What!”

Nicol Brinn dropped his arms and stood, as a man amazed, watching her.

“Last night there was a meeting outside London.”

“You don’t want me to believe there are English members?”

“Yes. There are. Many. But let me go on. Somehow--somehow I don’t

understand--he finds you are one--”

“My God!”

“And you are not present last night! Now, do you understand? So he

sends me to tell you that a car will be waiting at nine o’clock to-night

outside the Cavalry Club. The driver will be a Hindu. You know what to

say. Oh, my Nicol, my Nicol, go for my sake! You know it all! You

are clever. You can pretend. You can explain you had no call. If you

refuse--”

Nicol Brinn nodded grimly. “I understand! But, good God! How has he

found out? How has he found out?”

“I don’t know!” moaned Naida. “Oh, I am frightened--so frightened!”

A discreet rap sounded upon the door.

Nicol Brinn crossed and stood, hands clasped behind him, before the

mantelpiece. “In,” he said.

Hoskins entered. “Detective Sergeant Stokes wishes to see you at once,

sir.”

Brinn drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket. Attached to it was a fob

from which depended a little Chinese Buddha. He consulted the timepiece

and returned it to his pocket.

“Eight-twenty-five,” he muttered, and glanced across to where

Naida, wide-eyed, watched him. “Admit Detective Sergeant Stokes at

eight-twenty-six, and then lock the door.”

“Very good, sir.”

Hoskins retired imperturbably.

CHAPTER XVI. NICOL BRINN GOES OUT

Detective Sergeant Stokes was a big, dark, florid man, the word

“constable” written all over him. Indeed, as Wessex had complained more

than once, the mere sound of Stokes’s footsteps was a danger signal

for any crook. His respect for his immediate superior, the detective

inspector, was not great. The methods of Wessex savoured too much of the

French school to appeal to one of Stokes’s temperament and outlook upon

life, especially upon that phase of life which comes within the province

of the criminal investigator.

Wessex’s instructions with regard to Nicol Brinn had been succinct:

“Watch Mr. Brinn’s chambers, make a note of all his visitors, but take

no definite steps respecting him personally without consulting me.”

Armed with these instructions, the detective sergeant had undertaken

his duties, which had proved more or less tedious up to the time that

a fashionably attired woman of striking but unusual appearance had

inquired of the hall porter upon which floor Mr. Nicol Brinn resided.

In her manner the detective sergeant had perceived something furtive.

There was a hunted look in her eyes, too.

When, at the end of some fifteen or twenty minutes, she failed to

reappear, he determined to take the initiative himself. By intruding

upon this prolonged conference he hoped to learn something of value.

Truth to tell, he was no master of finesse, and had but recently been

promoted from an East End district where prompt physical action was of

more value than subtlety.

As a result, then, he presently found himself in the presence of the

immovable Hoskins; and having caused his name to be announced, he was

requested to wait in the lobby for one minute. Exactly one minute had

elapsed when he was shown into that long, lofty room, which of late had

been the scene of strange happenings.

Nicol Brinn was standing before the fireplace, hands clasped behind him,

and a long cigar protruding from the left corner of his mouth. No one

else was present, so far as the detective could see, but he glanced

rapidly about the room in a way which told the man who was watching

that he had expected to find another present. He looked into the

unfathomable, light blue eyes of Nicol Brinn, and became conscious of a

certain mental confusion.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, awkwardly. “I am acting in the case

concerning the disappearance of Mr. Paul Harley.”

“Yes,” replied Brinn.

“I have been instructed to keep an eye on these chambers.”

“Yes,” repeated the high voice.

“Well, sir”--again he glanced rapidly about--“I don’t want to intrude

more than necessary, but a lady came in here about half an hour ago.”

“Yes,” drawled Brinn. “It’s possible.”

“It’s a fact,” declared the detective sergeant. “If it isn’t troubling

you too much, I should like to know that lady’s name. Also, I should

like a chat with her before she leaves.”

“Can’t be done,” declared Nicol Brinn. “She isn’t here.”

“Then where is she?”

“I couldn’t say. She went some time ago.”

Stokes stood squarely before Nicol Brinn--a big, menacing figure; but

he could not detect the slightest shadow of expression upon the other’s

impassive features. He began to grow angry. He was of that sanguine

temperament which in anger acts hastily.

“Look here, sir,” he said, and his dark face flushed. “You can’t play

tricks on me. I’ve got my duty to do, and I am going to do it. Ask your

visitor to step in here, or I shall search the premises.”

Nicol Brinn replaced his cigar in the right corner of his mouth:

“Detective Sergeant Stokes, I give you my word that the lady to whom you

refer is no longer in these chambers.”

Stokes glared at him angrily. “But there is no other way out,” he

blustered.

“I shall not deal with this matter further,” declared Brinn, coldly. “I

may have vices, but I never was a liar.”

“Oh,” muttered the detective sergeant, taken aback by the cold

incisiveness of the speaker. “Then perhaps you will lead the way, as I

should like to take a look around.”

Nicol Brinn spread his feet more widely upon the hearthrug. “Detective

Sergeant Stokes,” he said, “you are not playing the game. Inspector

Wessex passed his word to me that for twenty-four hours my movements

should not be questioned or interfered with. How is it that I find you

here?”

Stokes thrust his hands in his pockets and coughed uneasily. “I am not a

machine,” he replied; “and I do my own job in my own way.”

“I doubt if Inspector Wessex would approve of your way.”

“That’s my business.”

“Maybe, but it is no affair of yours to interfere with private affairs

of mine, Detective Sergeant. See here, there is no lady in these

chambers. Secondly, I have an appointment at nine o’clock, and you are

detaining me.”

“What’s more,” answered Stokes, who had now quite lost his temper, “I

intend to go on detaining you until I have searched these chambers and

searched them thoroughly.”

Nicol Brinn glanced at his watch. “If I leave in five minutes, I’ll be

in good time,” he said. “Follow me.”

Crossing to the centre section of a massive bookcase, he opened it,

and it proved to be a door. So cunning was the design that the closest

scrutiny must have failed to detect any difference between the dummy

books with which it was decorated, and the authentic works which filled

the shelves to right and to left of it. Within was a small and cosy

study. In contrast with the museum-like room out of which it opened, it

was furnished in a severely simple fashion, and one more experienced in

the study of complex humanity than Detective Sergeant Stokes must have

perceived that here the real Nicol Brinn spent his leisure hours. Above

the mantel was a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Nicolas Brinn; and

whereas the great room overlooking Piccadilly was exotic to a degree,

the atmosphere of the study was markedly American.

Palpably there was no one there. Nor did the two bedrooms, the kitchen,

and the lobby afford any more satisfactory evidence. Nicol Brinn led the

way back from the lobby, through the small study, and into the famous

room where the Egyptian priestess smiled eternally. He resumed his place

upon the hearthrug. “Are you satisfied, Detective Sergeant?”

“I am!” Stokes spoke angrily. “While you kept me talking, she slipped

out through that study, and down into the street.”

“Ah,” murmured Nicol Brinn.

“In fact, the whole business looks very suspicious to me,” continued the

detective.

“Sorry,” drawled Brinn, again consulting his watch. “The five minutes

are up. I must be off.”

“Not until I have spoken to Scotland Yard, sir.”

“You wish to speak to Scotland Yard?”

“I do,” said Stokes, grimly.

Nicol Brinn strode to the telephone, which stood upon a small table

almost immediately in front of the bookcase. The masked door remained

ajar.

“You are quite fixed upon detaining me?”

“Quite,” said Stokes, watching him closely.

In one long stride Brinn was through the doorway, telephone in hand!

Before Stokes had time to move, the door closed violently, in order, no

doubt, to make it shut over the telephone cable which lay under it!

Detective Sergeant Stokes fell back, gazed wildly at the false books for

a moment, and then, turning, leaped to the outer door. It was locked!

In the meanwhile, Nicol Brinn, having secured the door which

communicated with the study, walked out into the lobby where Hoskins was

seated. Hoskins stood up.

“The lady went, Hoskins?”

“She did, sir.”

Nicol Brinn withdrew the key from the door of the room in which

Detective Sergeant Stokes was confined. Stokes began banging wildly upon

the panels from within.

“That row will continue,” Nicol Brinn said, coldly; “perhaps he will

shout murder from one of the windows. You have only to say you had no

key. I am going out now. The light coat, Hoskins.”

Hoskins unemotionally handed coat, hat, and cane to his master and,

opening the front door, stood aside. The sound of a window being raised

became audible from within the locked room.

“Probably,” added Nicol Brinn, “you will be arrested.”

“Very good, sir,” said Hoskins. “Good-night, sir...”

CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY

Some two hours after Paul Harley’s examination of Jones, the

ex-parlourmaid, a shabby street hawker appeared in the Strand, bearing a

tray containing copies of “Old Moore’s Almanac.” He was an ugly-looking

fellow with a split lip, and appeared to have neglected to shave for at

least a week. Nobody appeared to be particularly interested, and during

his slow progression from Wellington Street to the Savoy Hotel he smoked

cigarettes almost continuously. Trade was far from brisk, and the vendor

of prophecies filled in his spare time by opening car doors, for which

menial service he collected one three-penny bit and several sixpences.

This commercial optimist was still haunting the courtyard of the hotel

at a time when a very handsome limousine pulled up beside the curb and

a sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had been in the apartments

of Ormuz Khan must have recognized his excellency’s private secretary.

Turning to the chauffeur, a half-caste of some kind, and ignoring the

presence of the prophet who had generously opened the door, “You

will return at eight o’clock,” he said, speaking perfect and cultured

English, “to take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, as

I shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury station for

a parcel which will be awaiting me there.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the Hindu

walked into the hotel.

The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively upon

the pavement.

Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of Chancery

Lane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged into a maze of

courts with which he was evidently well acquainted. His bookselling

enterprise presently terminated, as it had commenced, at The Chancery

Agency.

Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly transformed

himself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his watch upon the

table before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in half an hour’s close

thinking.

His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was this time

beyond reproach. It was the course which logic dictated. Until he had

attempted the task earlier in the day, he could not have supposed it so

difficult to trace the country address of a well-known figure like that

of the Persian.

This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it, was

also determined to inspect the premises. But for such a stroke of good

luck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy, he could scarcely have

hoped. His course now lay clearly before him. And presently, laying his

pipe aside, he took up a telephone which stood upon the dressing table

and rang up a garage with which he had an account.

“Hello, is that you, Mason?” he said. “Have the racer to meet me at

seven o’clock, half-way along Pall Mall.”

Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing every

precaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the intervening

time at one of his clubs, from which, having made an early dinner, he

set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A rakish-looking gray car

resembling a giant torpedo was approaching slowly from the direction of

Buckingham Palace. The driver pulled up as Paul Harley stepped into

the road, and following a brief conversation Harley set out westward,

performing a detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a little

town with which he was only slightly acquainted. No evidence of

espionage could he detect, but the note of danger spoke intimately to

his inner consciousness; so that when, the metropolis left behind, he

found himself in the hilly Surrey countryside, more than once he pulled

up, 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 the

distant murmur of the city, and ordinary comings and goings along the

country roads, there was nothing to account for a growing anxiety of

which he became conscious.

He was in gunshot of Old Claybury church tower, when the sight of a

haystack immediately inside a meadow gate suggested a likely hiding

place for the racer; and, having run the car under cover, Harley

proceeded on foot to the little railway station. He approached a porter

who leaned in the doorway. “Could you direct me to the house of his

excellency Ormuz Khan?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “If you follow the uphill road on the other

side of the station until you come to the Manor Park--you will see the

gates--and then branch off to the right, taking the road facing the

gates. Hillside--that’s the name of the house--is about a quarter of a

mile along.”

Dusk was beginning to fall and, although the nature of his proposed

operations demanded secrecy, he recognized that every hour was precious.

Accordingly he walked immediately back to the spot at which he had left

the car and, following the porter’s directions, drove over the line at

the level crossing immediately beyond the station, and proceeded up

a tree-lined road until he found himself skirting the railing of an

extensive tract of park land.

Presently heavy gates appeared in view; and then, to the right, another

lane in which the growing dusk had painted many shadows. He determined

to drive on until he should find a suitable hiding place. And at a

spot, as he presently learned, not a hundred yards from Hillside, he

discovered an opening in the hedge which divided the road from a tilled

field. 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 found

himself standing ere long before an open gateway, and gazing along a

drive which presented a vista of utter blackness. A faint sound reached

his ear--the distant drone of a powerful engine. A big car was mounting

the slope from Lower Claybury Station.

CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY--CONTINUED

Not until Harley came within sight of the house, a low, rambling

Jacobean building, did he attempt to take cover. He scrambled up a tree

and got astride of a wall. A swift survey by his electric torch of the

ground on the other side revealed a jungle of weeds in either direction.

He uttered an impatient exclamation. He calculated that the car was now

within a hundred yards of the end of the lane. Suddenly came an idea

that was born of emergency. Swarming up the tree to where its dense

foliage began, he perched upon a stout bough and waited.

Three minutes later came a blaze of light through the gathering

darkness, and the car which he had last seen at the Savoy was turned

into the drive, and presently glided smoothly past him below.

The interior lights were extinguished, so that he was unable to discern

the occupants. The house itself was also unilluminated. And when the

car pulled up before the porch, less than ten yards from his observation

post, he could not have recognized the persons who descended and entered

Hillside.

Indeed, only by the sound of the closing door did he know that they had

gone in. But two figures were easily discernible; and he judged them to

be those of Ormuz Khan and his secretary. He waited patiently, and ere

long the limousine was turned in the little courtyard before the porch

and driven out into the lane again. He did not fail to note that, the

lane regained, the chauffeur headed, not toward Lower Claybury, but away

from it.

He retained his position until the hum of the motor grew dim in the

distance, and was about to descend when he detected the sound of a

second approaching car! Acutely conscious of danger, he remained where

he was. Almost before the hum of the retiring limousine had become

inaudible, a second car entered the lane and turned into the drive of

Hillside.

Harley peered eagerly downward, half closing his eyes in order that he

might not be dazzled by the blaze of the headlight. This was another

limousine, its most notable characteristic being that the blinds were

drawn in all the windows.

On this occasion, when the chauffeur stepped around and opened the door,

only one passenger alighted. There seemed to be some delay before he was

admitted, but Harley found it impossible to detect any details of the

scene being enacted in the shadowed porch.

Presently the second car was driven away, pursuing the same direction as

the first. Hot upon its departure came the drone of a third. The windows

of the third car also exhibited drawn blinds. As it passed beneath him

he stifled an exclamation of triumph. Vaguely, nebulously, the secret

of this dread thing Fire-Tongue, which had uplifted its head in England,

appeared before his mind’s eye. It was only necessary for him to assure

himself that the latest visitor had been admitted to the house before

the next move became possible. Accordingly he changed his position,

settling himself more comfortably upon the bough. And now he watched the

three cars perform each two journeys to some spot or spots unknown, and,

returning, deposit their passengers before the porch of Hillside. The

limousine used by Ormuz Khan, upon its second appearance had partaken of

the same peculiarity as the others: there were blinds drawn inside the

windows.

Paul Harley believed that he understood precisely what this signified,

and when, after listening intently in the stillness of the night, he

failed to detect sounds of any other approach, he descended to the path

and stole toward the dark house.

There were French windows upon the ground floor, all of them closely

shuttered. Although he recognized that he was taking desperate chances,

he inspected each one of them closely.

Passing gently from window to window, his quest ultimately earned its

reward. Through a crack in one of the shutters a dim light shone out.

His heart was beating uncomfortably, although he had himself well in

hand; and, crawling into the recess formed by the window, he pressed

his ear against a pane and listened intently. At first he could hear

nothing, but, his investigation being aided by the stillness of the

night, he presently became aware that a voice was speaking within the

room--deliberately, musically. The beating of his heart seemed to make

his body throb to the very finger tips. He had recognized the voice to

be the voice of Ormuz Khan!

Now, his sense of hearing becoming attuned to the muffled tones, he

began to make out syllables, words, and, finally, sentences. Darkness

wrapped him about, so that no one watching could have seen his face. But

he himself knew that under the bronze which he never lost he had grown

pale. His heartbeats grew suddenly fainter, an eerie chill more intense

than any which the note of danger had ever occasioned caused him to draw

sharply back.

“My God!” he whispered. He drew his automatic swiftly from his pocket,

and, pressed against the wall beside the window, looked about him as a

man looks who finds himself surrounded by enemies. Not a sound disturbed

the stillness of the garden except for sibilant rustlings of the leaves,

occasioned by a slight breeze.

Paul Harley retreated step by step to the bushes. He held the pistol

tightly clenched in his right hand.

He had heard his own death sentence pronounced and he knew that it was

likely to be executed.

CHAPTER XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY--CONCLUDED

He regained the curve of the drive without meeting any opposition.

There, slipping the pistol into his pocket, he climbed rapidly up the

tree from which he had watched the arrival of the three cars, climbed

over the wall, and dropped into the weed jungle beyond. He crept

stealthily forward to the gap where he had concealed the racer, drawing

nearer and nearer to the bushes lining the lane. Only by a patch of

greater darkness before him did he realize that he had reached it. But

when the realization came one word only he uttered: “Gone!”

His car had disappeared!

Despair was alien to his character: A true Englishman, he never knew

when he was beaten. Beyond doubt, now, he must accept the presence

of hidden enemies surrounding him, of enemies whose presence even his

trained powers of perception had been unable to detect. The intensity of

the note of danger which he had recognized now was fully explained.

He grew icily cool, master of his every faculty. “We shall see!” he

muttered, grimly.

Feeling his way into the lane, he set out running for the highroad, his

footsteps ringing out sharply upon the dusty way. The highroad gained,

he turned, not to the left, but to the right, ran up the bank and threw

himself flatly down upon it, lying close to the hedge and watching the

entrance to the lane. Nothing appeared; nothing stirred. He knew the

silence to be illusive; he blamed himself for having ventured upon

such a quest without acquainting himself with the geography of the

neighbourhood.

Great issues often rest upon a needle point. He had no idea of

the direction or extent of the park land adjoining the highroad.

Nevertheless, further inaction being out of the question, creeping along

the grassy bank, he began to retreat from the entrance to the lane. Some

ten yards he had progressed in this fashion when his hidden watchers

made their first mistake.

A faint sound, so faint that only a man in deadly peril could have

detected it, brought him up sharply. He crouched back against the hedge,

looking behind him. For a long time he failed to observe anything.

Then, against the comparatively high tone of the dusty road, he saw a

silhouette--the head and shoulders of someone who peered out cautiously.

Still as the trees above him he crouched, watching, and presently, bent

forward, questing to right and left, questing in a horribly suggestive

animal fashion, the entire figure of the man appeared in the roadway.

As Paul Harley had prayed would be the case, his pursuers evidently

believed that he had turned in the direction of Lower Claybury. A vague,

phantom figure, Harley saw the man wave his arm, whereupon a second man

joined him--a third--and, finally, a fourth.

Harley clenched his teeth grimly, and as the ominous quartet began to

move toward the left, he resumed his slow retreat to the right--going

ever farther away, of necessity, from the only centre with which he was

acquainted and from which he could hope to summon assistance. Finally

he reached a milestone resting almost against the railings of the Manor

Park.

Drawing a deep breath, he sprang upon the milestone, succeeded in

grasping the top of the high iron railings, and hauled himself up

bodily.

Praying that the turf might be soft, he jumped. Fit though he was, and

hardened by physical exercise, the impact almost stunned him. He came

down like an acrobat--left foot, right foot, and then upon his hands,

but nevertheless he lay there for a moment breathless and temporarily

numbed by the shock.

In less than a minute he was on his feet again and looking alertly about

him. Striking into the park land, turning to the left, and paralleling

the highroad, he presently came out upon the roadway, along which under

shelter of a straggling hedge, he began to double back. In sight of the

road dipping down to Lower Claybury he crossed, forcing his way through

a second hedge thickly sown with thorns.

Badly torn, but careless of such minor injuries, he plunged heavily

through a turnip field, and, bearing always to the left, came out

finally upon the road leading to the station, and only some fifty yards

from the bottom of the declivity.

A moment he paused, questioning the silence. He was unwilling to believe

that he had outwitted his pursuers. His nerves were strung to highest

tension, and his strange gift of semi-prescience told him that danger

was at least as imminent as ever, even though he could neither see nor

hear his enemies. Therefore, pistol in hand again, he descended to the

foot of the hill.

He remembered having noticed, when he had applied to the porter for

information respecting the residence of Ormuz Khan, that upon a window

adjoining the entrance had appeared the words “Station Master.” The

station master’s office, therefore, was upon the distant side of the

line.

Now came the hardest blow of all. The station was closed for the night.

Nor was there any light in the signal box. Evidently no other train

was due upon that branch line until some time in the early morning.

The level crossing gate was open, but before breaking cover he paused

a while to consider what he should do. Lower Claybury was one of those

stations which have no intimate connection with any township. The

nearest house, so far as Harley could recall, was fully twenty yards

from the spot at which he stood. Furthermore, the urgency of the case

had fired the soul of the professional investigator.

He made up his mind, and, darting out into the road, he ran across

the line, turned sharply, and did not pause until he stood before the

station master’s window. Then his quick wits were put to their ultimate

test.

Right, left, it seemed from all about him, came swiftly pattering

footsteps! Instantly he divined the truth. Losing his tracks upon the

highroad above, a section of his pursuers had surrounded the station,

believing that he would head for it in retreat.

Paul Harley whipped off his coat in a flash, and using it as a ram,

smashed the window. He reached up, found the catch, and opened the sash.

In ten seconds he was in the room, and a great clatter told him that he

had overturned some piece of furniture.

Disentangling his coat, he sought and found the electric torch. He

pressed the button. No light came. It was broken! He drew a hissing

breath, and began to grope about the little room. At last his hand

touched the telephone, and, taking it up:

“Hello!” he said. “Hello!”

“Yes,” came the voice of the operator--“what number?”

“City 8951. Police business! Urgent!”

One, two, three seconds elapsed, four, five, six.

“Hello!” came the voice of Innes.

“That you, Innes?” said Harley. And, interrupting the other’s reply: “I

am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest corners of my

life. Listen: Get Wessex! If he’s off duty, get Burton. Tell him to

bring--”

Someone leaped in at the broken window behind the speaker. Resting the

telephone upon the table, where he had found it, Harley reached into his

hip pocket and snapped out his automatic.

Dimly he could hear Innes speaking. He half-turned, raised the pistol,

and knew a sudden intense pain at the back of his skull. A thousand

lights seemed suddenly to split the darkness. He felt himself sinking

into an apparently bottomless pit.

CHAPTER XX. CONFLICTING CLUBS

“Any news, Wessex?” asked Innes, eagerly, starting up from his chair as

the inspector entered the office.

Wessex shook his head, and sitting down took out and lighted a

cigarette.

“News of a sort,” he replied, slowly, “but nothing of any value, I am

afraid. My assistant, Stokes, has distinguished himself.”

“In what way?” asked Innes, dully, dropping back into his chair.

These were trying days for the indefatigable secretary. Believing that

some clue of importance might come to light at any hour of the day or

night he remained at the chambers in Chancery Lane, sleeping nightly in

the spare room.

“Well,” continued the inspector, “I had detailed him to watch Nicol

Brinn, but my explicit instructions were that Nicol Brinn was not to be

molested in any way.”

“What happened?”

“To-night Nicol Brinn had a visitor--possibly a valuable witness.

Stokes, like an idiot, allowed her to slip through his fingers and tried

to arrest Brinn!”

“What? Arrest him!” cried Innes.

“Precisely. But I rather fancy,” added the inspector, grimly, “that

Mr. Stokes will think twice before taking leaps like that in the dark

again.”

“You say he tried to arrest him. What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that Nicol Brinn, leaving Stokes locked in his chambers, went

out and has completely disappeared!”

“But the woman?”

“Ah, the woman! There’s the rub. If he had lain low and followed the

woman, all might have been well. But who she was, where she came from,

and where she has gone, we have no idea.”

“Nicol Brinn must have been desperate to adopt such measures?”

Detective Inspector Wessex nodded.

“I quite agree with you.”

“He evidently had an appointment of such urgency that he could permit

nothing to stand in his way.”

“He is a very clever man, Mr. Innes. He removed the telephone from the

room in which he had locked Stokes, so that my blundering assistant was

detained for nearly fifteen minutes--detained, in fact, until his cries

from the window attracted the attention of a passing constable!”

“Nicol Brinn’s man did not release him?”

“No, he said he had no key.”

“What happened?”

“Stokes wanted to detain the servant, whose name is Hoskins, but I

simply wouldn’t hear of it. I am a poor man, but I would cheerfully give

fifty pounds to know where Nicol Brinn is at this moment.”

Innes stood up restlessly and began to drum his fingers upon the table

edge. Presently he looked up, and:

“There’s a shadow of hope,” he said. “Rector--you know Rector?--had been

detailed by the chief to cover the activities of Nicol Brinn. He has not

reported to me so far to-night.”

“You mean that he may be following him?” cried Wessex.

“It is quite possible--following either Nicol Brinn or the woman.”

“My God, I hope you’re right!--even though it makes the Criminal

Investigation Department look a bit silly.”

“Then,” continued Innes, “there is something else which you should know.

I heard to-day from a garage, with which Mr. Harley does business, that

he hired a racing car last night. He has often used it before. It met

him half-way along Pall Mall at seven o’clock, and he drove away in it

in the direction of Trafalgar Square.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Toward Trafalgar Square,” murmured Wessex.

“Ah,” said Innes, shaking his head, “that clue is of no importance.

Under the circumstances the chief would be much more likely to head away

from his objective than toward it.”

“Quite,” murmured Wessex. “I agree with you. But what’s this?”

The telephone bell was ringing, and as Innes eagerly took up the

receiver:

“Yes, yes, Mr. Innes speaking,” he said, quickly. “Is that you, Rector?”

The voice of Rector, one of Paul Harley’s assistants, answered him over

the wire:

“I am speaking from Victoria Station, Mr. Innes.”

“Yes!” said Innes. “Go ahead.”

“A very odd-looking woman visited Mr. Nicol Brinn’s chambers this

evening. She was beautifully dressed, but wore the collar of her fur

coat turned up about her face, so that it was difficult to see her. But

somehow I think she was an Oriental.”

“An Oriental!” exclaimed Innes.

“I waited for her to come out,” Rector continued. “She had arrived in

a cab, which was waiting, and I learned from the man that he had picked

her up at Victoria Station.”

“Yes?”

“She came out some time later in rather a hurry. In fact, I think there

was no doubt that she was frightened. By this time I had another cab

waiting.”

“And where did she go?” asked Innes.

“Back to Victoria Station.”

“Yes! Go on!”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Innes, my story does not go much further. I wasted

very little time, you may be sure. But although no train had left from

the South Eastern station, which she had entered, there was no sign of

her anywhere. So that I can only suppose she ran through to the Brighton

side, or possibly out to a car, which may have been waiting for her

somewhere.”

“Is that all?” asked Innes, gloomily.

“That’s all, Mr. Innes. But I thought I would report it.”

“Quite right, Rector; you could do no more. Did you see anything of

Detective Sergeant Stokes before you left Piccadilly?”

“I did,” replied the other. “He also was intensely interested in Nicol

Brinn’s visitor. And about five minutes before she came out he went

upstairs.”

“Oh, I see. She came out almost immediately after Stokes had gone up?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, Rector. Return to Piccadilly, and report to me as soon as

possible.” Innes hung up the receiver.

“Did you follow, Wessex?” he said. “Stokes was on the right track, but

made a bad blunder. You see, his appearance led to the woman’s retreat.”

“He explained that to me,” returned the inspector, gloomily. “She got

out by another door as he came in. Oh! a pretty mess he has made of

it. If he and Rector had been cooperating, they could have covered her

movements perfectly.”

“There is no use crying over spilt milk,” returned Innes. He glanced

significantly in the inspector’s direction. “Miss Abingdon has rung up

practically every hour all day,” he said.

Wessex nodded his head.

“I’m a married man myself,” he replied, “and happily married, too. But

if you had seen the look in her eyes when I told her that Mr. Harley had

disappeared, I believe you would have envied him.”

“Yes,” murmured Innes. “They haven’t known each other long, but I should

say from what little I have seen of them that she cares too much for her

peace of mind.” He stared hard at the inspector. “I think it will break

her heart if anything has happened to the chief. The sound of her voice

over the telephone brings a lump into my throat, Wessex. She rang up an

hour ago. She will ring up again.”

“Yet I never thought he was a marrying man,” muttered the inspector.

“Neither did I,” returned Innes, smiling sadly. “But even he can be

forgiven for changing his mind in the case of Phil Abingdon.”

“Ah,” said the inspector. “I am not sorry to know that he is human like

the rest of us.” His expression grew retrospective, and: “I can’t make

out how the garage you were speaking about didn’t report that matter

before,” he added.

“Well, you see,” explained Innes, “they were used to the chief making

long journeys.”

“Long journeys,” muttered the inspector. “Did he make a long journey? I

wonder--I wonder.”

CHAPTER XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA

As Nicol Brinn strolled out from the door below his chambers in

Piccadilly, a hoarse voice made itself audible above his head.

“Police!” he heard over the roar of the traffic. “Help! Police!”

Detective Sergeant Stokes had come out upon the balcony. But up to the

time that Nicol Brinn turned and proceeded in leisurely fashion in

the direction of the Cavalry Club, the sergeant had not succeeded in

attracting any attention.

Nicol Brinn did not hurry. Having his hands thrust in the pockets of his

light overcoat, he sauntered along Piccadilly as an idle man might do.

He knew that he had ample time to keep his appointment, and recognizing

the vital urgency of the situation, he was grateful for some little

leisure to reflect.

One who had obtained a glimpse of his face in the light of the shop

windows which he passed must have failed to discern any evidence of

anxiety. Yet Nicol Brinn knew that death was beckoning to him. He knew

that his keen wit was the only weapon which could avail him to-night;

and he knew that he must show himself a master of defense.

A lonely man, of few but enduring friendships, he had admitted but one

love to his life, except the love of his mother. This one love for seven

years he had sought to kill. But anything forceful enough to penetrate

to the stronghold of Nicol Brinn’s soul was indestructible, even by

Nicol Brinn himself.

So, now, at the end of a mighty struggle, he had philosophically

accepted this hopeless passion which Fate had thrust upon him. Yet he

whose world was a chaos outwardly remained unmoved.

Perhaps even that evil presence whose name was Fire-Tongue might have

paused, might have hesitated, might even have changed his plans, which,

in a certain part of the world, were counted immutable, had he known the

manner of man whom he had summoned to him that night.

Just outside the Cavalry Club a limousine was waiting, driven by a

chauffeur who looked like some kind of Oriental. Nicol Brinn walked up

to the man, and bending forward:

“Fire-Tongue,” he said, in a low voice.

The chauffeur immediately descended and opened the door of the car.

The interior was unlighted, but Nicol Brinn cast a comprehensive glance

around ere entering. As he settled himself upon the cushions, the door

was closed again, and he found himself in absolute darkness.

“Ah,” he muttered. “Might have foreseen it.” All the windows were

curtained, or rather, as a rough investigation revealed, were closed

with aluminium shutters which were immovable.

A moment later, as the car moved off, a lamp became lighted above him.

Then he saw that several current periodicals were placed invitingly in

the rack, as well as a box of very choice Egyptian cigarettes.

“H’m,” he murmured.

He made a close investigation upon every side, but he knew enough of the

organization with which he was dealing to be prepared for failure.

He failed. There was no cranny through which he could look out.

Palpably, it would be impossible to learn where he was being taken. The

journey might be a direct one, or might be a detour. He wished that he

could have foreseen this device. Above all, he wished that Detective

Sergeant Stokes had been a more clever man.

It would have been good to know that he was followed. His only hope was

that someone detailed by Paul Harley might be in pursuit.

Lighting a fresh cigar, Nicol Brinn drew a copy of the Sketch from the

rack, and studied the photographs of more or less pretty actresses with

apparent contentment. He had finished the Sketch, and was perusing the

Bystander, when, the car having climbed a steep hill and swerved sharply

to the right, he heard the rustling of leaves, and divined that they

were proceeding along a drive.

He replaced the paper in the rack, and took out his watch. Consulting

it, he returned it to his pocket as the car stopped and the light went

out.

The door, which, with its fellow, Nicol Brinn had discovered to be

locked, was opened by the Oriental chauffeur, and Brinn descended upon

the steps of a shadowed porch. The house door was open, and although

there was no light within:

“Come this way,” said a voice, speaking out of the darkness.

Nicol Brinn entered a hallway the atmosphere of which seemed to be very

hot.

“Allow me to take your hat and coat,” continued the voice.

He was relieved of these, guided along a dark passage; and presently, an

inner door being opened, he found himself in a small, barely furnished

room where one shaded lamp burned upon a large writing table.

His conductor, who did not enter, closed the door quietly, and Nicol

Brinn found himself looking into the smiling face of a Hindu gentleman

who sat at the table.

The room was decorated with queer-looking Indian carvings, pictures upon

silk, and other products of Eastern craftsmanship. The table and the

several chairs were Oriental in character, but the articles upon the

table were very European and businesslike in appearance. Furthermore,

the Hindu gentleman, who wore correct evening dress, might have been the

representative of an Eastern banking house, as indeed he happened to be,

amongst other things.

“Good evening,” he said, speaking perfect English “won’t you sit down?”

He pointed with a pen which he was holding in the direction of a heavily

carved chair which stood near the table. Nicol Brinn sat down, regarding

the speaker with lack-lustre eyes.

“A query has arisen respecting your fraternal rights,” continued the

Hindu. “Am I to understand that you claim to belong to the Seventh

Kama?”

“Certainly,” replied Brinn in a toneless voice.

The Hindu drew his cuff back from a slender yellow wrist, revealing a

curious mark which appeared to be branded upon the flesh. It was in the

form of a torch or flambeau surmounted by a tongue of flame. He raised

his black brows, smiling significantly.

Nicol Brinn stood up, removing his tight dinner jacket. Then, rolling

back his sleeve from a lean, sinuous forearm, he extended the powerful

member, having his fist tightly clenched.

Upon the inside of his arm, just above the elbow, an identical mark had

been branded!

The Hindu stood up and saluted Nicol Brinn in a peculiar manner. That is

to say, he touched the second finger of his right hand with the tip of

his tongue, and then laid the finger upon his forehead, at the same time

bowing deeply.

Nicol Brinn repeated the salutation, and quietly put his coat on.

“We greet you,” said the Hindu. “I am Rama Dass of the Bengal Lodge.

Have you Hindustani?”

“No.”

“Where were you initiated?”

“At Moon Ali Lane.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Hindu. “I see it all. In Bombay?”

“In Bombay.”

“When, and by whom, may I ask?”

“By Ruhmani, November 23, 1913.”

“Strange,” murmured Rama Dass. “Brother Ruhmani died in that year; which

accounts for our having lost touch with you. What is your grade?”

“The fifth.”

“You have not proceeded far, brother. How do you come to be unacquainted

with our presence in England?”

“I cannot say.”

“What work has been allotted to you?”

“None.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“More and more strange,” murmured the Hindu, watching Nicol Brinn

through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore. “I have only known one

other case. Such cases are dangerous, brother.”

“No blame attaches to me,” replied Nicol Brinn.

“I have not said so,” returned Rama Dass. “But in the Seventh Kama all

brothers must work. A thousand lives are as nothing so the Fire lives.

We had thought our information perfect, but only by accident did we

learn of your existence.”

“Indeed,” murmured Nicol Brinn, coldly.

Not even this smiling Hindu gentleman, whose smile concealed so much,

could read any meaning in those lack-lustre eyes, nor detect any emotion

in that high, cool voice.

“A document was found, and in this it was recorded that you bore upon

your arm the sign of the Seventh Kama.”

“‘Tis Fire that moves the grains of dust,” murmured Nicol Brinn,

tonelessly, “which one day make a mountain for the gods.”

Rama Dass stood up at once and repeated his strange gesture of

salutation, which Nicol Brinn returned ceremoniously; and resumed his

seat at the table.

“You are advanced beyond your grade, brother,” he said. “You are worthy

the next step. Do you wish to take it?”

“Every little drop swells the ocean,” returned Nicol Brinn.

“You speak well,” the Hindu said. “We have here your complete record. It

shall not be consulted. To do so were unnecessary. We are satisfied. We

regret only that one so happily circumstanced to promote the coming of

the Fire should have been lost sight of. Last night there were three

promotions and several rejections. You were expected.”

“But I was not summoned.”

“No,” murmured Rama Dass. “We had learned of you as I have said.

However, great honour results. You will be received alone. Do you desire

to advance?”

“No. Give me time.”

Rama Dass again performed the strange salutation, and again Nicol Brinn

returned it.

“Wisdom is a potent wine,” said the latter, gravely.

“We respect your decision.”

The Hindu rang a little silver bell upon his table, and the double doors

which occupied one end of the small room opened silently, revealing a

large shadowy apartment beyond.

Rama Dass stood up, crossed the room, and standing just outside the open

doors, beckoned to Nicol Brinn to advance.

“There is no fear,” he said, in a queer, chanting tone.

“There is no fear,” repeated Nicol Brinn.

“There is no love.”

“There is no love.”

“There is no death.”

“There is no death.”

“Fire alone is eternal.”

“Fire alone is eternal.”

As he pronounced those words Nicol Brinn crossed the threshold of the

dark room, and the double doors closed silently behind him.

CHAPTER XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS

Absolute darkness surrounded Nicol Brinn. Darkness, unpleasant heat, and

a stifling odour of hyacinths. He had been well coached, and thus far

his memory had served him admirably. But now he knew not what to expect.

Therefore inwardly on fire but outwardly composed, muscles taut and

nerves strung highly, he waited for the next development.

It took the form, first, of the tinkling of a silver bell, and then

of the coming of a dim light at the end of what was evidently a long

apartment. The light grew brighter, assuming the form of a bluish flame

burning in a little flambeau. Nicol Brinn watched it fascinatedly.

Absolutely no sound was discernible, until a voice began to speak, a

musical voice of curiously arresting quality.

“You are welcome,” said the voice. “You are of the Bombay Lodge,

although a citizen of the United States. Because of some strange error,

no work has been allotted to you hitherto. This shall be remedied.”

Of the weird impressiveness of the scene there could be no doubt. It

even touched some unfamiliar chord in the soul of Nicol Brinn.

The effect of such an interview upon an imaginative, highly strung

temperament, could be well imagined. It was perhaps theatrical, but that

by such means great ends had already been achieved he knew to his cost.

The introduction of Maskelyne illusions into an English country house

must ordinarily have touched his sense of humour, but knowing something

of the invisible presence in which he stood in that darkened chamber,

there was no laughter in the heart of Nicol Brinn, but rather an

unfamiliar coldness, the nearest approach to fear of which this

steel-nerved man was capable.

“Temporarily,” the sweet voice continued, “you will be affiliated with

the London Lodge, to whom you will look for instructions. These will

reach you almost immediately. There is great work to be done in England.

It has been decided, however, that you shall be transferred as quickly

as possible in our New York Lodge. You will await orders. Only Fire is

eternal.”

Again the voice ceased. But, Nicol Brinn remained silent:

“Your reply is awaited.”

“Fire is life,” replied Nicol Brinn.

The blue tongue of flame subsided, lower and lower, and finally

disappeared, so that the apartment became enwrapped in absolute

darkness. A faint rustling sound suggested that a heavy curtain had been

lowered, and almost immediately the doors behind Nicol Brinn were opened

again by Rama Dass.

“We congratulate you, brother,” he said, extending his hand. “Yet the

ordeal was no light one, for all the force of the Fire was focussed upon

you.”

Nicol Brinn reentered the room where the shaded lamp stood upon the

writing table. In the past he had moved unscathed through peril unknown

to the ordinary man. He was well acquainted with the resources of the

organization whose agents, unseen, surrounded him in that remote country

house, but that their pretensions were extravagant his present immunity

would seem to prove.

If the speaker with the strangely arresting voice were indeed that

Fire-Tongue whose mere name was synonymous with dread in certain parts

of the East, then Fire-Tongue was an impostor. He who claimed to read

the thoughts of all men had signally failed in the present instance,

unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the smiling face of Rama Dass. Not

yet must he congratulate himself. Perhaps the Hindu’s smile concealed as

much as the mask worn by Nicol Brinn.

“We congratulate you,” said Rama Dass. “You are a worthy brother.”

He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn automatically

acknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass led the way to the

door.

Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut, his

brain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest him. He was

assisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his hands. Then,

the front door being opened, he saw the headlights of the waiting car

shining on a pillar of the porch.

A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine, and as

it moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay back upon the

cushions and uttered a long sigh.

Already he divined that, following a night’s sleep, these scenes would

seem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he raised his

hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly damp.

“No wonder,” he muttered.

Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner

jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then, selecting a

long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram of the late Czar of

Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in the tray, and lolling back

in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.

Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His only

actions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were locked

again, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone of ash in the

tray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car drew up and a door was

unlocked by the chauffeur.

Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before the porch

of the Cavalry Club.

The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel.

Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol Brinn

scarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it was not that

under which the car was registered. His interest, on the contrary, was

entirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce, which was evidently

awaiting some visitor or member of the club. Glancing shrewdly at the

chauffeur, a smart, military-looking fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a card

from his waistcoat pocket, and resting it upon a wing in the light of

one of the lamps, wrote something rapidly upon it in pencil.

Returning the pencil to his pocket:

“Whose car, my man?” he inquired of the chauffeur.

“Colonel Lord Wolverham’s, sir.”

“Good,” said Nicol Brinn, and put the card and a ten-shilling note into

the man’s hand. “Go right into the club and personally give Colonel Lord

Wolverham this card. Do you understand?”

The man understood. Used to discipline, he recognized the note of

command in the speaker’s voice.

“Certainly, sir,” he returned, without hesitation; and stepping down

upon the pavement he walked into the club.

Less than two minutes afterward a highly infuriated military

gentleman--who, as it chanced, had never even heard of the distinguished

American traveller--came running out hatless into Piccadilly, holding

a crumpled visiting card in his hand. The card, which his chauffeur had

given him in the midst of a thrilling game, read as follows:

MR. NICOL BRINN RALEIGH HOUSE, PICCADILLY, W. I.

And written in pencil beneath the name appeared the following:

Borrowed your Rolls. Urgent. Will explain tomorrow. Apologize. N.B.

CHAPTER XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON’S VISITOR

On the following morning the card of His Excellency Ormuz Khan was

brought to Phil Abingdon in the charming little room which Mrs.

McMurdoch had allotted to her for a private sanctum during the period of

her stay under this hospitable roof.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and looked at the maid in a startled way. “I

suppose I must see him. Will you ask him to come in, please?”

A few moments later Ormuz Khan entered. He wore faultless morning dress,

too faultless; so devoid of any flaw or crease as to have lost its

masculine character. In his buttonhole was a hyacinth, and in one

slender ivory hand he carried a huge bunch of pink roses, which, bowing

deeply, he presented to the embarrassed girl.

“Dare I venture,” he said in his musical voice, bending deeply over her

extended hand, “to ask you to accept these flowers? It would honour me.

Pray do not refuse.”

“Your excellency is very kind,” she replied, painfully conscious of

acute nervousness. “It is more than good of you.”

“It is good of you to grant me so much pleasure,” he returned,

sinking gracefully upon a settee, as Phil Abingdon resumed her seat.

“Condolences are meaningless. Why should I offer them to one of your

acute perceptions? But you know--” the long, magnetic eyes regarded her

fixedly--“you know what is in my heart.”

Phil Abingdon bit her lip, merely nodding in reply.

“Let us then try to forget, if only for a while,” said Ormuz Khan. “I

could show you so easily, if you would consent to allow me, that those

we love never leave us.”

The spell of his haunting voice was beginning to have its effect. Phil

Abingdon found herself fighting against something which at once repelled

and attracted her. She had experienced this unusual attraction before,

and this was not the first time that she had combated it. But whereas

formerly she had more or less resigned herself to the strange magic

which lay in the voice and in the eyes of Ormuz Khan, this morning there

was something within her which rebelled fiercely against the Oriental

seductiveness of his manner.

She recognized that a hot flush had covered her cheeks. For the image

of Paul Harley, bronzed, gray-eyed, and reproachful, had appeared before

her mind’s eye, and she knew why her resentment of the Persian’s charm

of manner had suddenly grown so intense. Yet she was not wholly immune

from it, for:

“Does Your Excellency really mean that?” she whispered.

A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile, but rather that of a

beautiful woman than of a man.

“As you of the West,” he said, “have advanced step by step, ever upward

in the mechanical sciences, we of the East have advanced also step by

step in other and greater sciences.”

“Certainly,” she admitted, “you have spoken of such things before.”

“I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered upon

your first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those within the

ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages have been beside

you, at times unseen by the world, at times unseen by you, veiled by the

mist which men call death, but which is no more than a curtain behind

which we sometimes step for a while. In the East we have learned to

raise that curtain; in the West are triflers who make like claims,

but whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is--” And he snapped his

fingers contemptuously.

The strange personality of the man was having its effect. Phil

Abingdon’s eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his words.

Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit--a

spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could have

produced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized,

and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certain

conditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic,

whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her

mind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within

her--chords which had never responded to any other human voice.

It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.

“Your Excellency almost frightens me,” she whispered. “Yet I do not

doubt that you speak of what you know.”

“It is so,” he returned, gravely. “At any hour, day or night, if you

care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But,” he

lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, “the real object of

my visit is concerned with more material things.”

“Indeed,” said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormuz

Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established

between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul

Harley.

“I bring you a message,” he continued, “from a friend.”

With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him.

“From,” she began--but her lips would not frame the name.

“From Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, inclining his head gravely.

“Oh! tell me, tell me!”

“I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his absence

may have distressed you.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly.

“But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has found

it necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out of London for

a while.”

“Oh,” Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Your Excellency, how glad

I am to hear that he is safe!”

The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting that

the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and noting also

the expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of her sweet lips.

“He is my guest,” continued Ormuz Khan, “my honoured guest.”

“He is with you?” exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.

“With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he found a natural ally, since

my concern was as great as his own. I do not conceal from you, Miss

Abingdon, that he is danger.”

“In danger?” she whispered.

“It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There is a matter of vital

urgency, however, in which you can assist him.”

“I?” she exclaimed.

“No one but you.” Ormuz Khan raised his slender hand gracefully. “I beg

you, do not misunderstand me. In the first place, would Mr. Harley have

asked you to visit him at my home, if he had not been well assured

that you could do so with propriety? In the second place, should I, who

respect you more deeply than any woman in the world, consent to your

coming unchaperoned? Miss Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you in

Mr. Harley’s name and in my own, prevail upon Mrs. McMurdoch to accept

the invitation which I bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surrey

home.”

He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier addressing his queen. His

low musical voice held a note that was almost a note of adoration. Phil

Abingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome ivory face, and strove for

mental composure before replying.

Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell upon her. Of this she

was well aware. In other words, her thoughts were not entirely her own,

but in a measure were promptings from that powerful will.

Indeed, her heart was beating wildly at the mere thought that she was

to see Paul Harley again that very day. She had counted the hours since

their last meeting, and knew exactly how many had elapsed. 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 was unable to

judge, for his watch had been removed from his pocket. He stared about

him with a sort of fearful interest. He lay in a small barely furnished

room having white distempered walls, wholly undecorated. Its few

appointments were Oriental, and the only window which it boasted was set

so high as to be well out of reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and

at the moment admitted no light, whether because it did not communicate

with the outer world, or because night was fallen, he was unable to

tell.

There were two doors in the room, one of very massive construction, and

the other a smaller one. The place was dimly lighted by a brass lantern

which hung from the ceiling. Harley stood up, staggered slightly, and

then sat down again.

“My God,” he groaned and raised his hand to his head.

For a few moments he remained seated, victim of a deadly nausea. Then,

clenching his jaws grimly, again he stood up, and this time succeeded in

reaching the heavy door.

As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a glance was sufficient

to show him that his unaided effort could never force it. He turned his

attention to the smaller door, which opened at his touch, revealing a

sleeping apartment not unlike a monk’s cell, adjoining which was a tiny

bathroom. Neither rooms boasted windows, both being lighted by brass

lanterns.

Harley examined them and their appointments with the utmost care, and

then returned again to the outer room, one feature of which, and quite

the most remarkable, he had reserved for special investigation.

This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll work, which occupied

nearly the whole of one end of the room. Beyond the screen hung a

violet-coloured curtain of Oriental fabric; but so closely woven was the

metal design that although he could touch this curtain with his finger

at certain points, it proved impossible for him to move it aside in any

way.

He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch the door. By stooping

down, he could see a few feet into some room beyond. It was in darkness,

however, and beyond the fact that it was carpeted with a rich Persian

rug, he learned but little from his scrutiny. The gilded screen was

solid and immovable.

Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pockets for pipe and pouch,

wondering if these, too, had been taken from him. They had not, however,

and the first nausea of his awakening having passed, he filled and

lighted his briar and dropped down upon the divan to consider his

position.

That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was unable to hide from

himself, but at least he was still alive, which was a matter at once for

congratulation and surprise.

He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his head, that his

forehead felt cold and wet, and now, considering the matter closely,

he came to the conclusion that an attempt had been made to aid his

recovery, by some person or persons who must have retired at the moment

that he had shown signs of returning consciousness.

His salvation, then, was not accidental but deliberate. He wondered what

awaited him and why his life had been spared. That he had walked blindly

into a trap prepared for him by that mysterious personality known

as Fire-Tongue, he no longer could doubt. Intense anxiety and an

egotistical faith in his own acumen had led him to underestimate the

cleverness of his enemies, a vice from which ordinarily he was free.

From what hour they had taken a leading interest in his movements,

he would probably never know, but that they had detected Paul Harley

beneath the vendor of “Old Moore’s Almanac” was certain enough. What a

fool he had been!

He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary common sense should have

told him that the Hindu secretary had given those instructions to the

chauffeur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his, Paul Harley’s,

special benefit. It was palpable enough now. He wondered how he had ever

fallen into such a trap, and biting savagely upon his pipe, he strove to

imagine what ordeal lay ahead of him.

So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal danger, which he knew to

be great, to other matters, which he dreaded to consider, because they

meant far more to him than his own life. Upon these bitter reflections a

slight sound intruded, the first which had disturbed the stillness about

him since the moment of his awakening.

Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded screen, and now a faint

light showed beneath the fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley sat quite

still, smoking and watching.

He had learned to face the inevitable with composure, and now,

apprehending the worst, he waited, puffing at his pipe. Presently he

detected the sound of someone crossing the room toward him, or rather

toward the screen. He lay back against the mattress which formed the

back of the divan, and watched the gap below the curtain.

Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots. Their wearer was

evidently standing quite near the screen, possibly listening. Harley had

an idea that some second person stood immediately behind the first. Of

this idea he presently had confirmation. He was gripping the stem of his

pipe very tightly and any one who could have seen him sitting there must

have perceived that although his face wore an unusual pallor, he was

composed and entirely master of himself.

A voice uttered his name:

“Mr. Paul Harley.”

He could not be sure, but he thought it was the voice of Ormuz Khan’s

secretary. He drew his pipe from between his teeth, and:

“Yes, what do you want with me?” he asked.

“Your attention, Mr. Harley, for a few moments, if you feel sufficiently

recovered.”

“Pray proceed,” said Harley.

Of the presence of a second person beyond the screen he was now assured,

for he had detected the sound of whispered instructions; and sinking

lower and lower upon the divan, he peered surreptitiously under the

border of the curtain, believing it to be more than probable that his

movements were watched.

This led to a notable discovery. A pair of gray suede shoes became

visible a few inches behind the glossy black boots--curiously small

shoes with unusually high heels. The identity of their wearer was beyond

dispute to the man who had measured that delicate foot.

Ormuz Khan stood behind the screen!

CHAPTER XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN’S HONOUR

“You have been guilty of a series of unfortunate mistakes, Mr. Harley,”

continued the speaker. “Notably, you have relied upon the clumsy device

of disguise. To the organization in which you have chosen to interest

yourself, this has provided some mild amusement. Your pedlar of almanacs

was a clever impersonation, but fortunately your appearance at the Savoy

had been anticipated, and no one was deceived.”

Paul Harley did not reply. He concluded, quite correctly, that the

organization had failed to detect himself in the person of the nervous

cobbler. He drew courage from this deduction. Fire-Tongue was not

omniscient.

“It is possible,” continued the unseen speaker, in whom Harley had

now definitely recognized Ormuz Khan’s secretary, “that you recently

overheard a resolution respecting yourself. Your death, in fact, had

been determined upon. Life and death being synonymous, the philosopher

contemplates either with equanimity.”

“I am contemplating the latter with equanimity at the moment,” said

Harley, dryly.

“The brave man does so,” the Hindu continued, smoothly. “The world only

seems to grow older; its youth is really eternal, but as age succeeds

age, new creeds must take the place of the old ones which are burned

out. Fire, Mr. Harley, sweeps everything from its path irresistibly.

You have dared to stand in the path of a fiery dawn; therefore, like all

specks of dust which clog the wheels of progress, you must be brushed

aside.”

Harley nodded grimly, watching a ring of smoke floating slowly upward.

“It is a little thing to those who know the truth,” the speaker resumed.

“To the purblind laws of the West it may seem a great thing. We seek in

Rome to do as Rome does. We judge every man as we find him. Therefore,

recognizing that your total disappearance might compromise our movements

in the near future, we have decided to offer you an alternative. This

offer is based upon the British character. Where the oath of some men is

a thing of smoke, the word of honour of an Englishman we are prepared to

accept.”

“Many thanks,” murmured Harley. “On behalf of Great Britain I accept the

compliment.”

“We have such faith in the completeness of our plans, and in the

nearness of the hour of triumph, that if you will pledge yourself to

silence, in writing, you will not be molested in any way. You occupy at

the moment the apartment reserved for neophytes of a certain order. But

we do not ask you to become a neophyte. Disciples must seek us, we do

not seek disciples. We only ask for your word that you will be silent.”

“It is impossible,” said Harley, tersely.

“Think well of the matter. It may not seem so impossible to-morrow.”

“I decline definitely.”

“You are sustaining yourself with false hopes, Mr. Harley. You think

you have clues which will enable you to destroy a system rooted in the

remote past. Also you forget that you have lost your freedom.”

Paul Harley offered no further answer to the speaker concealed behind

the violet curtain.

“Do not misunderstand us,” the voice continued. “We bind you to nothing

but silence.”

“I refuse,” said Harley, sharply. “Dismiss the matter.”

“In spite of your refusal, time for consideration will be given to you.”

Faintly Paul Harley detected the sounds made by Ormuz Khan and his

secretary in withdrawing. The light beneath the curtain disappeared.

For perhaps a space of two hours, Paul Harley sat smoking and

contemplating the situation from every conceivable angle. It was

certainly desperate enough, and after a time he rose with a weary

sigh, and made a second and more detailed examination of the several

apartments.

It availed him nothing, but one point he definitely established. Escape

was impossible, failing outside assistance. A certain coldness in the

atmosphere, which was perceptible immediately beneath the barred window,

led him to believe that this communicated with the outer air.

He was disposed to think that his unconsciousness had lasted less than

an hour, and that it was still dark without. He was full of distrust.

He no longer believed his immediate death to have been decided upon.

For some reason it would seem that the group wished him to live, at any

rate, temporarily. But now a complete theory touching the death of Sir

Charles Abingdon had presented itself to his mind. Knowing little, but

suspecting much of the resources of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured to avoid

contact with anything in the place.

Night attire was provided in the sleeping chamber, but he did not avail

himself of this hospitality. Absolute silence reigned about him. Yet so

immutable are Nature’s laws, that presently Paul Harley sank back upon

the mattresses, and fell asleep.

He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested. He found a shaft of

light streaming into the room, and casting shadows of the iron bars upon

the opposite wall. The brass lantern still burned above him, and the

silence remained complete as when he had fallen asleep. He stood up

yawning and stretching himself.

At least, it was good to be still alive. He was vaguely conscious of the

fact that he had been dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and suppressing a sigh,

he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the little bathroom. There

proved to be a plentiful supply of hot and cold water. At this he

sniffed suspiciously, but at last:

“I’ll risk it,” he muttered.

He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot bath, concluding with a

cold plunge. A razor and excellent toilet requisites were set upon the

dressing table, and whilst his imagination whispered that the soap might

be poisoned and the razor possess a septic blade, he shaved, and having

shaved, lighted his pipe and redressed himself at leisure.

He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight sound in the outer room

arrested his attention. He turned sharply, stepping through the doorway.

A low carved table, the only one which the apartment boasted, displayed

an excellent English breakfast laid upon a spotless cover.

“Ah,” he murmured, and by the sight was mentally translated to that

celebrated apartment of the palace at Versailles, where Louis XIV

and his notorious favourite once were accustomed to dine, alone, and

unsuitably dressed, the courses being served in just this fashion.

Harley held his pipe in his hand, and contemplated the repast. It was

only logical to suppose it to be innocuous, and a keen appetite

hastened the issue. He sidetracked his suspicion, and made an excellent

breakfast. So the first day of his captivity began.

Growing used to the stillness about him, he presently began to detect,

as the hours wore on, distant familiar sounds. Automobiles on the

highroad, trains leaving and entering a tunnel which he judged to be

from two to three miles distant; even human voices at long intervals.

The noises of an English countryside crept through the barred windows.

Beyond a doubt he was in the house known as Hillside. Probably at

night the lights of London could be seen from the garden. He was within

ordinary telephone call of Chancery Lane. Yet he resumed his pipe and

smiled philosophically. He had hoped to see the table disappear beneath

the floor. As evidence that he was constantly watched, this had occurred

during a brief visit which he had made to the bedroom in quest of

matches.

When he returned the table was in its former place, but the cover had

been removed. He carefully examined the floor beneath it, and realized

that there was no hope of depressing the trap from above. Then, at an

hour which he judged to be that of noon, the same voice addressed him

from beyond the gilded screen.

“Mr. Paul Harley?”

“Yes, what have you to say?”

“By this time, Mr. Harley, you must have recognized that opposition

is futile. At any moment we could visit death upon you. Escape, on

the other hand, is out of the question. We desire you no harm. For

diplomatic reasons, we should prefer you to live. Our cause is a sacred

one. Do not misjudge it by minor incidents. A short statement and a copy

of your English testament shall be placed upon the table, if you wish.”

“I do not wish,” Paul Harley returned.

“Is that your last word, Mr. Harley? We warn you that the third time of

asking will be the last time.”

“This is my last word.”

“Your own life is not the only stake at issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will learn what we mean, if you insist upon withholding your

consent until we next invite it.”

“Nevertheless, you may regard it as withheld, definitely and finally.”

Silence fell, and Paul Harley knew himself to be once more alone.

Luncheon appeared upon the table whilst he was washing in the bathroom.

Remembering the change in the tone of the unseen speaker’s voice, he

avoided touching anything.

From the divan, through half-closed eyes, he examined every inch of

the walls, seeking for the spy-hole through which he knew himself to be

watched. He detected it at last: a little grating, like a ventilator,

immediately above him where he sat. This communicated with some room

where a silent watcher was constantly on duty!

Paul Harley gave no sign that he had made this discovery. But already

his keen wits were at work upon a plan. He watched the bar of light

fading, fading, until, judging it to be dinner time, he retired

discreetly.

When he returned, he found dinner spread upon the table.

He wondered for what ordeal the neophyte was prepared in this singular

apartment. He wondered how such neophytes were chosen, and to what tests

they were submitted before being accepted as members of the bloodthirsty

order. He could not even surmise.

Evidently no neophyte had been accepted on the previous night, unless

there were other like chambers in the house. The occupants of the

shuttered cars must therefore have been more advanced members. He spent

the night in the little cell-like bedchamber, and his second day of

captivity began as the first had begun.

For his dinner he had eaten nothing but bread and fruit. For his

breakfast he ate an egg and drank water from the tap in the bathroom.

His plan was now nearing completion. Only one point remained doubtful.

At noon the voice again addressed him from behind the gilded screen:

“Mr. Paul Harley?”

“Yes?”

“Your last opportunity has come. For your own future or for that of the

world you seem to care little or nothing. Are you still determined to

oppose our wishes?”

“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:

‘No.---- Harley Street London, W. I.

‘MY DEAR MERTON:

‘I am indebted to you and to Mr. Harley for an opportunity of examining

the serviette, which I return herewith. I agree that the oil does not

respond to ordinary tests, nor is any smell perceptible. But you have

noticed in your microscopic examination of the stains that there is a

peculiar crystalline formation upon the surface. You state that this is

quite unfamiliar to you, which is not at all strange, since outside

of the Himalayan districts of Northwest India I have never met with it

myself.

‘Respecting the character of the oil employed, however, I am in no

doubt, and I actually possess a dried specimen of the flower from which

it is expressed. This is poetically known among the Mangars, one of the

fighting tribes of Nepal, as the Bloom or Orchid of Sleep.

‘It is found upon the lower Himalayan slopes, and bears a close

resemblance to the white odontoglossum of commerce, except that the

flower is much smaller. Its perfume attracts insects and sometimes small

animals and reptiles, although inhalation seems to induce instant death.

It may be detected in its natural state by the presence of hundreds

of dead flies and insects upon the ground surrounding the plant. It is

especially fatal to nocturnal insects, its perfume being stronger at

night.

‘Preparation of the oil is an art peculiar to members of an obscure sect

established in that district, by whom it is said to be employed for the

removal of enemies.

‘An article is sprinkled with it, and whilst the perfume, which is

reported to resemble that of cloves, remains perceptible, to inhale it

results in immediate syncope, although by what physiological process I

have never been enabled to determine.

‘With the one exception which I have mentioned, during my stay in Nepal

and the surrounding districts I failed to obtain a specimen of this

orchid. I have twice seen the curious purple stain upon articles of

clothing worn by natives who had died suddenly and mysteriously. The

Mangars simply say, “He has offended someone. It is the flower of

sleep.”

‘I immediately recognized the colour of the stains upon the enclosed

serviette, and also the curious crystalline formation on their surface.

The identity of the “someone” to whom the Mangars refer, I never

established. I shall welcome any particulars respecting the history of

the serviette.

‘Very truly yours,

‘WARWICK GREY.’

“Sir Charles Abingdon was poisoned,” said Wessex in a hushed voice. “For

the girl’s sake I hate the idea, but we shall have to get an exhumation

order.”

“It is impossible,” returned Innes, shortly. “He was cremated.”

“Good heavens,” murmured Wessex, “I never knew.”

“But after all,” continued Inures, “it is just as well for everyone

concerned. The known facts are sufficient to establish the murder,

together with the report of Dr. Warwick Grey. But, meanwhile, are we any

nearer to learning the identity of the murderer?”

“We are not!” said Wessex, grimly. “And what’s more, when I get to

Scotland Yard, I have got to face the music. First Mr. Harley goes, and

now Nicol Brinn has disappeared!”

“It’s almost unbelievable!”

“I took him for a white man,” said the detective, earnestly. “I accepted

his parole for twenty-four hours. The twenty-four hours expired about

noon to-day, but since he played that trick on Stokes last night and

went out of his chambers, he has vanished utterly.”

Innes stood up excitedly.

“Your ideas may be all wrong, Wessex!” he cried. “Don’t you see that he

may have gone the same way as the chief?”

“He was mightily anxious to get out, at any rate.”

“And you have no idea where he went?”

“Not the slightest. Following his performance of last night, of course I

was compelled to instal a man in the chambers, and this morning someone

rang up from the house of Lord Wolverham; he is commanding officer of

one of the Guards battalions, I believe. It appears that Mr. Nicol

Brinn not only locked up a representative of the Criminal Investigation

Department, but also stole a Rolls Royce car from outside the Cavalry

Club!”

“What!” cried Innes. “Stole a car?”

“Stole Lord Wolverham’s car and calmly drove away in it. We have failed

to trace both car and man!” The detective inspector sighed wearily.

“Well, I suppose I must get along to the Yard. Stokes has got the laugh

on me this time.”

Wearing a very gloomy expression, the detective inspector proceeded on

foot to New Scotland Yard, and being informed on his arrival upstairs

that the Assistant Commissioner was expecting him, he entered the office

of that great man.

The Assistant Commissioner, who had palpably seen military service, was

a big man with very tired eyes, and a quiet, almost apologetic manner.

“Ah, Detective Inspector,” he said, as Wessex entered. “I wanted to see

you about this business of Mr. Nicol Brinn.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Wessex; “naturally.”

“Now,” the Assistant Commissioner turned wearily in his chair, and

glanced up at his subordinate--“your accepting the parole of a suspect,

under the circumstances, was officially improper, but I am not blaming

you--I am not blaming you for a moment. Mr. Nicol Brinn’s well-known

reputation justified your behaviour.” He laid one large hand firmly upon

the table. “Mr. Nicol Brinn’s absence alters the matter entirely.”

“I am well aware of it,” murmured the inspector. “Although,” continued

the Assistant Commissioner, “Mr. Brinn’s record leads me to believe that

he will have some suitable explanation to offer, his behaviour, you will

admit, is that of a guilty man?”

“It is, sir; it certainly is.”

“The Press, fortunately, has learned nothing of this unpleasant

business, particularly unpleasant because it involves such well-known

people. You will see to it, Detective Inspector, that all publicity is

avoided if possible. Meanwhile, as a matter of ordinary departmental

routine, you will circulate Mr. Brinn’s description through the

usual channels, and--” the Assistant Commissioner raised his eyebrows

slightly.

“You mean that?” asked Wessex.

“Certainly. He must be arrested by the first officer who recognizes

him.”

“Very good, sir. I will move in the matter at once.”

“Do so, please.” The Assistant Commissioner sighed wearily, as one of

his telephones set up a muted buzzing. “That is all for the moment, I

think. Good morning.”

Detective Inspector Wessex came out, quietly closing the door behind

him. He felt that he had been let down very lightly. But nevertheless

he was unpleasantly warm, and as he walked slowly along the corridor he

whistled softly, and:

“Arrest of Mr. Nicol Brinn,” he muttered. “What a headline, if they ever

get it!”

CHAPTER XXVII. AT HILLSIDE

Phil Abingdon arrived at Hillside in a state of mind which she found

herself unable to understand. Mrs. McMurdoch, who had accepted the

invitation under protest, saying that if Doctor McMurdoch had been at

home he would certainly have disapproved, had so utterly fallen under

the strange spell of Ormuz Khan, that long before they had come to

Hillside she was hanging upon his every word in a way which was almost

pathetic to watch.

On the other hand, Phil Abingdon had taken up a definite attitude of

defense; and perceiving this, because of his uncanny intuitiveness, the

Persian had exerted himself to the utmost, more often addressing Phil

than her companion, and striving to regain that mastery of her emotions

which he had formerly achieved, at least in part.

Her feelings, however, were largely compounded of fear, and fear

strengthened her defense. The repulsive part of Ormuz Khan’s character

became more apparent to her than did the fascination which she had once

experienced. She distrusted him, distrusted him keenly. She knew at the

bottom of her heart that this had always been so, but she had suffered

his attentions in much the same spirit as that which imbues the

naturalist who studies the habits of a poisonous reptile.

She knew that she was playing with fire, and in this knowledge lay a

dangerous pleasure. She had the utmost faith in her own common sense,

and was ambitious to fence with edged tools.

When at last the car was drawn up before the porch of Hillside, and

Ormuz Khan, stepping out, assisted the ladies to alight, for one moment

Phil Abingdon hesitated, although she knew that it was already too

late to do so. They were received by Mr. Rama Dass, his excellency’s

courteous secretary, whom she had already met, and whom Ormuz Khan

presented to Mrs. McMurdoch. Almost immediately:

“You have missed Mr. Harley by only a few minutes,” said Rama Dass.

“What!” exclaimed Phil, her eyes opening very widely.

“Oh, there is no occasion for alarm,” explained the secretary in his

urbane manner. “He has ventured as far as Lower Claybury station. The

visit was unavoidable. He particularly requested that we should commence

luncheon, but hoped to be back before we should have finished.”

Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly from the face of the speaker to that of

Ormuz Khan. But her scrutiny of those unreadable countenances availed

her nothing. She was conscious of a great and growing uneasiness; and

Mrs. McMurdoch, misunderstanding the expression upon her face, squeezed

her arm playfully.

“Cheer up, dear,” she whispered; “he will be here soon!”

Phil knew that her face had flushed deeply. Partly she was glad of her

emotions, and partly ashamed. This sweet embarrassment in which there

was a sort of pain was a new experience, but one wholly delightful.

She laughed, and accepting the arm of Ormuz Khan, walked into a very

English-looking library, followed by Rama Dass and Mrs. McMurdoch. The

house, she thought, was very silent, and she found herself wondering why

no servants had appeared.

Rama Dass had taken charge of the ladies’ cloaks in the hall, and in

spite of the typical English environment in which she found herself,

Phil sat very near to Mrs. McMurdoch on a settee, scarcely listening to

the conversation, and taking no part in it.

For there was a strange and disturbing air of loneliness about Hillside.

She would have welcomed the appearance of a butler or a parlourmaid,

or any representative of the white race. Yes: there lay the root of

the matter--this feeling of aloofness from all that was occidental,

a feeling which the English appointments of the room did nothing to

dispel. Then a gong sounded and the party went in to lunch.

A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil discovered his movements

to be unpleasantly silent. There was something very unreal about it all.

She found herself constantly listening for the sound of an approaching

car, of a footstep, of a voice, the voice of Paul Harley. This waiting

presently grew unendurable, and:

“I hope Mr. Harley is safe,” she said, in a rather unnatural tone.

“Surely he should have returned by now?”

Ormuz Khan shrugged his slight shoulders and glanced at a

diamond-studded wrist watch which he wore.

“There is nothing to fear,” he declared, in his soft, musical voice. “He

knows how to take care of himself. And”--with a significant glance of

his long, magnetic eyes--“I am certain he will return as speedily as

possible.”

Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley had not appeared.

“You have sometimes expressed a desire,” said Ormuz Khan, “to see the

interior of a Persian house. Permit me to show you the only really

characteristic room which I allow myself in my English home.”

Endeavouring to conceal her great anxiety, Phil allowed herself to be

conducted by the Persian to an apartment which realized her dreams of

that Orient which she had never visited.

Three beautiful silver lanterns depended from a domed ceiling in which

wonderfully woven tapestry was draped. The windows were partly obscured

by carved wooden screens, and the light entered through little panels

of coloured glass. There were cushioned divans, exquisite pottery, and a

playful fountain plashing in a marble pool.

Ormuz Khan conducted her to a wonderfully carven chair over which a

leopard’s skin was draped and there she seated herself. She saw through

a wide doorway before her a long and apparently unfurnished room dimly

lighted. At the farther end she could vaguely discern violet-coloured

draperies. Ormuz Khan gracefully threw himself upon a divan to the right

of this open door.

“This, Miss Abingdon,” he said, “is a nearly exact reproduction of

a room of a house which I have in Ispahan. I do not claim that it is

typical, but does its manner appeal to you?”

“Immensely,” she replied, looking around her.

She became aware of a heavy perfume of hyacinths, and presently observed

that there were many bowls of those flowers set upon little tables, and

in niches in the wall.

“Yet its atmosphere is not truly of the Orient.”

“Are such apartments uncommon, then, in Persia?” asked Phil, striving

valiantly to interest herself in the conversation.

“I do not say so,” he returned, crossing one delicate foot over the

other, in languorous fashion. “But many things which are typically of

the Orient would probably disillusion you, Miss Abingdon.”

“In what way?” she asked, wondering why Mrs. McMurdoch had not joined

them.

“In many subtle ways. The real wonder and the mystery of the East lie

not upon the surface, but beneath it. And beneath the East of to-day

lies the East of yesterday.”

The speaker’s expression grew rapt, and he spoke in the mystic manner

which she knew and now dreaded. Her anxiety for the return of Paul

Harley grew urgent--a positive need, as, meeting the gaze of the long,

magnetic eyes, she felt again, like the touch of cold steel, all the

penetrating force of this man’s will. She was angrily aware of the fact

that his gaze was holding hers hypnotically, that she was meeting it

contrary to her wish and inclination. She wanted to look away but found

herself looking steadily into the coal-black eyes of Ormuz Khan.

“The East of yesterday”--his haunting voice seemed to reach her from a

great distance--“saw the birth of all human knowledge and human power;

and to us the East of yesterday is the East of today.”

Phil became aware that a sort of dreamy abstraction was creeping over

her, when in upon this mood came a sound which stimulated her weakening

powers of resistance.

Dimly, for all the windows of the room were closed, she heard a car come

up and stop before the house. It aroused her from the curious condition

of lethargy into which she was falling. She turned her head sharply

aside, the physical reflection of a mental effort to remove her gaze

from the long, magnetic eyes of Ormuz Khan. And:

“Do you think that is Mr. Harley?” she asked, and failed to recognize

her own voice.

“Possibly,” returned the Persian, speaking very gently.

With one ivory hand he touched his knee for a moment, the only

expression of disappointment which he allowed himself.

“May I ask you to go and enquire?” continued Phil, now wholly mistress

of herself again. “I am wondering, too, what can have become of Mrs.

McMurdoch.”

“I will find out,” said Ormuz Khan.

He rose, his every movement possessing a sort of feline grace. He bowed

and walked out of the room. Phil Abingdon heard in the distance the

motor restarted and the car being driven away from Hillside. She stood

up restlessly.

Beneath the calm of the Persian’s manner she had detected the presence

of dangerous fires. The silence of the house oppressed her. She was not

actually frightened yet, but intuitively she knew that all was not well.

Then came a new sound arousing active fear at last.

Someone was rapping upon one of the long, masked windows! Phil Abingdon

started back with a smothered exclamation.

“Quick!” came a high, cool voice, “open this window. You are in danger.”

The voice was odd, peculiar, but of one thing she was certain. It was

not the voice of an Oriental. Furthermore, it held a note of command,

and something, too, which inspired trust.

She looked quickly about her to make sure that she was alone. And then,

running swiftly to the window from which the sound had come, she moved a

heavy gilded fastening which closed it, and drew open the heavy leaves.

A narrow terrace was revealed with a shrubbery beyond; and standing

on the terrace was a tall, thin man wearing a light coat over evening

dress. He looked pale, gaunt, and unshaven, and although the regard of

his light eyes was almost dreamy, there was something very tense in his

pose.

“I am Nicol Brinn,” said the stranger. “I knew your father. You have

walked into a trap. I am here to get you out of it. Can you drive?”

“Do you mean an automobile?” asked Phil, breathlessly.

“A Rolls Royce.”

“Yes.”

“Come right out.”

“My furs! my hat!”

“Something bigger is at stake.”

It was all wildly bizarre, almost unbelievable. Phil Abingdon had

experienced in her own person the insidious power of Ormuz Khan. She

now found herself under the spell of a personality at least as forceful,

although in a totally different way. She found herself running through a

winding path amid bushes, piloted by this strange, unshaven man, to whom

on sight she had given her trust unquestioningly!

“When we reach the car,” he said over his shoulder, “ask no

questions--head for home, and don’t stop for anything--on two legs or on

four. That’s the first thing--most important; then, when you know you’re

safe, telephone Scotland Yard to send a raid squad down by road, and do

it quick.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHASE

The events which led to the presence of Mr. Nicol Brinn at so opportune

a moment were--consistent with the character of that remarkable man--of

a sensational nature.

Having commandeered the Rolls Royce from the door of the Cavalry Club,

he had immediately, by a mental process which many perils had perfected,

dismissed the question of rightful ownership from his mind. The fact

that he might be intercepted by police scouts he refused to entertain.

The limousine driven by the Hindu chauffeur was still in sight, and

until Mr. Nicol Brinn had seen it garaged, nothing else mattered,

nothing else counted, and nothing else must be permitted to interfere.

Jamming his hat tightly upon his head, he settled down at the wheel,

drawing up rather closer to the limousine as the chase lay through

crowded thoroughfares and keeping his quarry comfortably in sight across

Westminster Bridge and through the outskirts of London.

He had carefully timed the drive to the unknown abode of Fire-Tongue,

and unless it had been prolonged, the more completely to deceive him,

he had determined that the house lay not more than twenty miles from

Piccadilly.

When Mitcham was passed, and the limousine headed straight on into

Surrey, he decided that there had been no doubling, but that the house

to which he had been taken lay in one of these unsuspected country

backwaters, which, while they are literally within sight of the lights

of London, have nevertheless a remoteness as complete as secrecy could

desire.

It was the deserted country roads which he feared, for if the man ahead

of him should suspect pursuit, a difficult problem might arise.

By happy chance Nicol Brinn, an enthusiastic motorist, knew the map

of Surrey as few Englishmen knew it. Indeed, there was no beauty spot

within a forty-mile radius of London to which he could not have driven

by the best and shortest route, at a moment’s notice. This knowledge

aided him now.

For presently at a fork in the road he saw that the driver of the

limousine had swung to the left, taking the low road, that to the right

offering a steep gradient. The high road was the direct road to Lower

Claybury, the low road a detour to the same.

Nicol Brinn mentally reviewed the intervening countryside, and taking a

gambler’s chance, took the Rolls Royce up the hill. He knew exactly

what he was about, and he knew that the powerful engine would eat up the

slope with ease.

Its behaviour exceeded his expectations, and he found himself mounting

the acclivity at racing speed. At its highest point, the road, skirting

a hilltop, offered an extensive view of the valley below. Here Nicol

Brinn pulled up and, descending, watched and listened.

In the stillness he could plainly hear the other automobile humming

steadily along the lowland road below. He concentrated his mind upon

the latter part of that strange journey, striving to recall any details

which had marked it immediately preceding the time when he had detected

the rustling of leaves and knew that they had entered a carriage drive.

Yes, there had been a short but steep hill; and immediately before

this the car had passed over a deeply rutted road, or--he had a sudden

inspiration--over a level crossing.

He knew of just such a hilly road immediately behind Lower Claybury

station. Indeed, it was that by which he should be compelled to descend

if he continued to pursue his present route to the town. He could think

of no large, detached house, the Manor Park excepted, which corresponded

to the one which he sought. But that in taking the high road he had

acted even more wisely than he knew, he was now firmly convinced.

He determined to proceed as far as the park gates as speedily as

possible. Therefore, returning to the wheel, he sent the car along the

now level road at top speed, so that the railings of the Manor Park,

when presently he found himself skirting the grounds, had the semblance

of a continuous iron fence wherever the moonlight touched them.

He passed the head of the road dipping down to Lower Claybury, but forty

yards beyond pulled up and descended. Again he stood listening, and:

“Good!” he muttered.

He could hear the other car labouring up the slope. He ran along to the

corner of the lane, and, crouching close under the bushes, waited for

its appearance. As he had supposed, the chauffeur turned the car to the

right.

“Good!” muttered Nicol Brinn again.

There was a baggage-rack immediately above the number plate. Upon this

Nicol Brinn sprang with the agility of a wildcat, settling himself upon

his perilous perch before the engine had had time to gather speed.

When presently the car turned into the drive of Hillside, Nicol Brinn

dropped off and dived into the bushes on the right of the path. From

this hiding place he saw the automobile driven around the front of the

house to the garage, which was built out from the east wing. Not daring

to pursue his investigations until the chauffeur had retired, he sought

a more comfortable spot near a corner of the lawn and there, behind a

bank of neglected flowers, lay down, watching the man’s shadowy figure

moving about in the garage.

Although he was some distance from the doors he could see that there

was a second car in the place--a low, torpedo-bodied racer, painted

battleship gray. This sight turned his thoughts in another direction.

Very cautiously he withdrew to the drive again, retracing his steps

to the lane, and walking back to the spot where he had left the Rolls

Royce, all the time peering about him to right and left. He was looking

for a temporary garage for the car, but one from which, if necessary,

he could depart in a hurry. The shell of an ancient barn, roofless and

desolate, presently invited inspection and, as a result, a few minutes

later Colonel Lord Wolverham’s luxurious automobile was housed for the

night in these strange quarters.

When Nicol Brinn returned to Hillside, he found the garage locked

and the lights extinguished. Standing under a moss-grown wall which

sheltered him from the house, from his case he selected a long black

cigar, lighted it with care and, having his hands thrust in the pockets

of his light overcoat and the cigar protruding aggressively from the

left corner of his mouth, he moved along to an angle of the wall and

stared reflectively at the silent house.

A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the shadow of the distant

Himalayas. Was it credible that this quiet country house, so typical of

rural England, harboured that same dread secret which he had believed to

be locked away in those Indian hills? Could he believe that the dark

and death-dealing power which he had seen at work in the East was now

centred here, within telephone-call of London?

The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul Harley would seem to

indicate that such was the case. Beyond doubt, the document of which

Rama Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession of the late Sir

Charles. Much that had been mysterious was cleared up. He wondered why

it had not occurred to him from the first that Sir Charles’s inquiry,

which he had mentioned to Paul Harley, respecting Fire-Tongue, had been

due to the fact that the surgeon had seen the secret mark upon his arm

after the accident in the Haymarket. He remembered distinctly that his

sleeve had been torn upon that occasion. He could not imagine, however,

what had directed the attention of the organization to Sir Charles, and

for what reason his death had been decided upon.

He rolled his cigar from corner to corner of his mouth, staring

reflectively with lack-lustre eyes at the silent house before him. In

the moonlight it made a peaceful picture enough. A cautious tour of the

place revealed a lighted window upon the first floor. Standing in the

shadow of an old apple tree, Nicol Brinn watched the blind of this

window minute after minute, patiently waiting for a shadow to appear

upon it; and at last his patience was rewarded.

A shadow appeared--the shadow of a woman!

Nicol Brinn dropped his cigar at his feet and set his heel upon it. A

bitter-sweet memory which had been with him for seven years arose

again in his mind. There is a kind of mountain owl in certain parts

of northern India which possesses a curiously high, plaintive note. He

wondered if he could remember and reproduce that note.

He made the attempt, repeating the cry three times. At the third

repetition the light in the first floor window went out. He heard the

sound of the window being gently opened. Then a voice--a voice

which held the sweetest music in the world for the man who listened

below--spoke softly:

“Nicol!”

“Naida!” he called. “Come down to me. You must. Don’t answer. I will

wait here.”

“Promise you will let me return!”

He hesitated.

“Promise!”

“I promise.”

CHAPTER XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE

The first faint spears of morning creeping through the trees which

surrounded Hillside revealed two figures upon a rustic bench in the

little orchard adjoining the house. A pair incongruous enough--this

dark-eyed Eastern woman, wrapped in a long fur cloak, and Nicol Brinn,

gaunt, unshaven, fantastic in his evening dress, revealed now in the

gray morning light.

“Look!” whispered Naida. “It is the dawn. I must go!”

Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth tightly but made no reply.

“You promised,” she said, and although her voice was very tender she

strove to detach his arm, which was locked about her shoulders.

He nodded grimly.

“I’ll keep my word. I made a contract with hell with my eyes open, and

I’ll stick to it.” He stood up suddenly. “Go back, Naida!” he said. “Go

back! You have my promise, now, and I’m helpless. But at last I see a

way, and I’m going to take it.”

“What do you mean?” she cried, standing up and clutching his arm.

“Never mind.” His tone was cool again. “Just go back.”

“You would not--” she began.

“I never broke my word in my life, and even now I’m not going to begin.

While you live I stay silent.”

In the growing light Naida looked about her affrightedly. Then, throwing

her arms impulsively around Brinn, she kissed him--a caress that was

passionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a mother who parts with a

beloved son than that which a woman bestows upon the man she loves; an

act of renunciation.

He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in his arms but, lithely

evading him, she turned, stifling a sob, and darted away through the

trees toward the house.

For long he stood looking after her, fists clenched and his face very

gray in the morning light. Some small inner voice told him that his new

plan, and the others which he had built upon it, must crumble and fall

as a castle of sand. He groaned and, turning aside, made his way through

the shrubbery to the highroad.

He was become accessory to a murder; for he had learned for what reason

and by what means Sir Charles Abingdon had been assassinated. He had

even learned the identity of his assassin; had learned that the dreaded

being called Fire-Tongue in India was known and respected throughout the

civilized world as His Excellency Ormuz Khan!

Paul Harley had learned these things also, and now at this very hour

Paul Harley lay a captive in Hillside. Naida had assured him that Paul

Harley was alive and safe. It had been decided that his death would lead

to the destruction of the movement, but pressure was being brought upon

him to ensure his silence.

Yes, he, Nicol Brinn, was bound and manacled to a gang of assassins;

and because his tongue was tied, because the woman he loved better than

anything in the world was actually a member of the murderous group, he

must pace the deserted country lanes inactive; he must hold his hand,

although he might summon the resources of New Scotland Yard by phoning

from Lower Claybury station!

Through life his word had been his bond, and Nicol Brinn was incapable

of compromising with his conscience. But the direct way was barred to

him. Nevertheless, no task could appal the inflexible spirit of the man,

and he had registered a silent vow that Ormuz Khan should never leave

England alive.

Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads, and sitting down upon a

grassy bank, Nicol Brinn lighted one of his black cigars, which in times

of stress were his food and drink, upon which if necessary he could

carry-on for forty-eight hours upon end.

In connection with his plan for coercing Harley, Ormuz Khan had gone

to London by rail on the previous night, departing from Lower Claybury

station at about the time that Colonel Lord Wolverham came out of the

Cavalry Club to discover his Rolls Royce to be missing. This same Rolls

Royce was now a source of some anxiety to Nicol Brinn, for its discovery

by a passing labourer in the deserted barn seemed highly probable.

However, he had matters of greater urgency to think about, not the

least of these being the necessity of concealing his presence in the

neighbourhood of Hillside. Perhaps his Sioux-like face reflected a

spirit allied in some respects to that of the once great Indian tribe.

His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many a big-game expedition,

enabled him successfully to accomplish the feat; so that, when the

limousine, which he had watched go by during the morning, returned

shortly after noon, the lack-lustre eyes were peering out through the

bushes near the entrance to the drive.

Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom Ormuz Khan was deep in

conversation could be none other than Phil Abingdon, but the identity

of her companion he could not even guess. On the other hand, that this

poisonously handsome Hindu, who bent forward so solicitously toward

his charming travelling companion, was none other than the dreaded

Fire-Tongue, he did not doubt.

He returned to a strategic position which he had discovered during the

night. In a measure he was nonplussed. That the presence of the girl was

primarily associated with the coercion of Paul Harley, he understood;

but might it not portend something even more sinister?

When, later, the limousine departed again, at great risk of detection he

ran across a corner of the lawn to peer out into the lane, in order that

he might obtain a glimpse of its occupant. This proved to be none other

than Phil Abingdon’s elderly companion. She had apparently been taken

ill, and a dignified Hindu gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez, was

in attendance.

Nicol Brinn clenched his jaws hard. The girl had fallen into a trap. He

turned rapidly, facing the house. Only at one point did the shrubbery

approach the wall, but for that point he set out hot foot, passing from

bush to bush with Indian cleverness, tense, alert, and cool in despite

of his long vigil.

At last he came to the shallow veranda with its four sightless windows

backed by fancifully carven screens. He stepped up to the first of these

and pressed his ear against the glass.

Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth, musical

voice speaking in the room beyond. A woman’s voice answered and,

listening intently, he detected the sound of a closing door.

Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that Phil

Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more frightened

than she had ever been in her life, presently found herself driving a

luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on to the highroad, and

down the slope to Claybury station.

It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley put into

execution a project which he had formed. The ventilator above the divan,

which he had determined to be the spy-hole through which his every

movement was watched, had an ornamental framework studded with metal

knobs. He had recently discovered an electric bell-push in the centre

panel of the massive door of his prison.

Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring about

the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm by dint of a

giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.

Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the gilded

screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:

“Mr. Paul Harley?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I have made my final decision.”

“And that is?”

“I agree.”

“You are wise,” the voice replied. “A statement will be placed before

you for signature. When you have signed it, ring the bell again, and in

a few minutes you will be free.”

Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing. Thereupon, heaving a loud

sigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest of some place

to hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded grating, stood

upon the divan and hung his coat over the spy-hole! This accomplished,

he turned.

The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor beneath.

Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged upon

it! It continued to descend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.

Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paused for a moment to take

breath. The window remained open, as Phil Abingdon had left it. He

stepped into the room with its elegant Persian appointments. It was

empty. But as he crossed the threshold, he paused, arrested by the sound

of a voice.

“A statement will be placed before you,” said the voice, “and when you

have signed it, in a few minutes you will be free.”

Nicol Brinn silently dropped flat at the back of a divan, as Rama Dass,

coming out of the room which communicated with the golden screen, made

his way toward the distant door. Having one eye raised above the top

of the cushions, Nicol Brinn watched him, recognizing the man who had

accompanied the swooning lady. She had been deposited, then, at no great

distance from the house.

He was to learn later that poor Mrs. McMurdoch, in her artificially

induced swoon, had been left in charge of a hospitable cottager, while

her solicitous Oriental escort had sped away in quest of a physician.

But at the moment matters of even greater urgency engaged his attention.

Creeping forward to the doorway by which Rama Dass had gone out,

Nicol Brinn emerged upon a landing from which stairs both ascended and

descended. Faint sounds of footsteps below guided him, and although from

all outward seeming he appeared to saunter casually down, his left hand

was clutching the butt of a Colt automatic.

He presently found himself in a maze of basements--kitchens of the

establishment, no doubt. The sound of footsteps no longer guided him. He

walked along, and in a smaller deserted pantry discovered the base of a

lift shaft in which some sort of small elevator worked. He was staring

at this reflectively, when, for the second time in his adventurous

career, a silken cord was slipped tightly about his throat!

He was tripped and thrown. He fought furiously, but the fatal knee

pressure came upon his spine so shrewdly as to deprive him of the

strength to raise his hands.

“My finish!” were the words that flashed through his mind, as sounds

like the waves of a great ocean beat upon his ears and darkness began to

descend.

Then, miraculously, the pressure ceased; the sound of great waters

subsided; and choking, coughing, he fought his way back to life, groping

like a blind man and striving to regain his feet.

“Mr. Brinn!” said a vaguely familiar voice. “Mr. Brinn!”

The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed, and

breathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the floor of the

pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the silken rope in his

hand!

“Mr. Harley!” gasped Brinn. “My God, sir!” He clutched at his bruised

throat. “I have to thank you for my life.”

He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping upon his

knees, turned the man over.

“I struck him behind the ear,” he muttered, “and gave him every ounce.

Good heavens!”

He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass’s vest, and now he looked up,

his face very grim.

“Good enough!” said Brinn, coolly. “He asked for it; he’s got it. Take

this.” He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley’s hand as the latter

stood up again.

“What do we do now?” asked Harley.

“Search the house,” was the reply. “Everything coloured you see, shoot,

unless I say no.”

“Miss Abingdon?”

“She’s safe. Follow me.”

Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn, taking three steps at

a stride. Palpably enough the place was deserted. Ormuz Khan’s plans for

departure were complete.

Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to find them stripped and

bare. On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped dead, and his gaunt

face grew ashen. Then he tottered across the room, arms outstretched.

“Naida,” he whispered. “My love, my love!”

Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the corridor

when the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A limousine was being

driven away from the side entrance! Not alone had he heard that sound.

His face deathly, and the lack-lustre eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn

burst out of the room and, not heeding the presence of Harley, hurled

himself down the stairs. He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.

“There he is!” cried Harley--“heading for the Dover Road!”

Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley had

made his fateful journey and which had afterward been concealed in the

garage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.

Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and again,

the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the rear of the

limousine.

They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed slightly

ahead.

Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with an

apprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who drove.

What did he intend to do?

Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body nearer to the wheels of

the racing limousine. The Oriental chauffeur drew in ever closer to the

ditch bordering the roadside. He shouted hoarsely and was about to apply

the brakes when the two cars touched!

A rending crash came--a hoarse scream--and the big limousine toppled

over into the ditch.

Harley felt himself hurled through space.

“Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?” asked Inspector Wessex,

excitedly.

Phil Abingdon’s message had come through nearly an hour before, and

a party had been despatched in accordance with Brinn’s instructions.

Wessex had returned to New Scotland Yard too late to take charge, and

now, before the Assistant Commissioner had time to reply, a ‘phone

buzzed.

“Yes?” said the Assistant Commissioner, taking up one of the several

instruments: “What!”

Even this great man, so justly celebrated for his placid demeanour, was

unable to conceal his amazement.

“Yes,” he added. “Let him come up!” He replaced the receiver and turning

to Wessex: “Mr. Nicol Brinn is here!” he informed him.

“What’s that!” cried the inspector, quite startled out of his usual

deferential manner.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Came a rap at the door.

“Come in,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

The door was thrown open and Nicol Brinn entered. One who knew him well

would have said that he had aged ten years. Even to the eye of Wessex he

looked an older man. He wore a shoddy suit and a rough tweed cap and his

left arm was bandaged.

“Gentlemen,” he said, without other greeting, “I’m here to make a

statement. I desire that a shorthand-writer attend to take it down.”

He dropped weakly into a chair which Wessex placed for him. The

Assistant Commissioner, doubtless stimulated by the manner of his

extraordinary visitor, who now extracted a cigar from the breast pocket

of his ill-fitting jacket and nonchalantly lighted it, successfully

resumed his well-known tired manner, and, pressing a bell:

“One shall attend, Mr. Brinn,” he said.

A knock came at the door and a sergeant entered.

“Send Ferris,” directed the Assistant Commissioner. “Quickly.”

Two minutes later a man came in carrying a note book and fountain pen.

The Assistant Commissioner motioned him to a chair, and:

“Pray proceed, Mr. Brinn,” he said.

CHAPTER XXX. NICOL BRINN’S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE

“The statement which I have to make, gentlemen, will almost certainly

appear incredible to you. However, when it has been transcribed I will

sign it. And I am going to say here and now that there are points in the

narrative which I am in a position to substantiate. What I can’t prove

you must take my word for. But I warn you that the story is tough.

“I have a certain reputation for recklessness. I don’t say it may not be

inherent; but if you care to look the matter up, you will find that the

craziest phase of my life is that covering the last seven years. The

reason why I have courted death during that period I am now about to

explain.

“Although my father was no traveller, I think I was born with the

wanderlust. I started to explore the world in my Harvard vacations, and

when college days were over I set about the business whole-heartedly.

Where I went and what I did, up to the time that my travels led me to

India, is of no interest to you or to anybody else, because in India

I found heaven and hell--a discovery enough to satisfy the most

adventurous man alive.

“At this present time, gentlemen, I am not going to load you with

geographical details. The exact spot at which my life ended, in a sense

which I presently hope to make clear, can be located at leisure by the

proper authorities, to whom I will supply a detailed map which I have in

my possession. I am even prepared to guide the expedition, if the Indian

Government considers an expedition necessary and cares to accept

my services. It’s good enough for you to know that pig-sticking and

tiger-hunting having begun to pall upon me somewhat, I broke away from

Anglo-Indian hospitality, and headed up country, where the Himalayas

beckoned. I had figured on crossing at a point where no man has crossed

yet, but that project was interrupted, and I’m here to tell you why.

“Up there in the northwest provinces they told me I was crazy when I

outlined, one night in a mess, of which I was a guest at the time, my

scheme for heading northeast toward a tributary of the Ganges which

would bring me to the neighbourhood of Khatmandu, right under the shadow

of Everest.

“‘Once you leave Khatmandu,’ said the mess president, ‘you are outside

the pale as far as British influence is concerned. I suppose you

understand that?’

“I told him I quite understood it.

“‘You can’t reach Tibet that way,’ he said.

“‘Never mind, sir,’ I answered. ‘I can try, if I feel like it.’

“Three days later I set out. I am not superstitious, and if I take a

long time to make a plan, once I’ve made it I generally stick to it. But

right at the very beginning of my expedition I had a warning, if ever a

man had one. The country through which my route lay is of very curious

formation. If you can imagine a section of your own west country viewed

through a giant magnifying glass, you have some sort of picture of the

territory in which I found myself.

“Gigantic rocks stand up like monstrous tors, or towers, sometimes

offering sheer precipices of many hundreds of feet in height. On

those sides of these giant tors, however, which are less precipitous,

miniature forests are sometimes found, and absolutely impassable

jungles.

“Bordering an independent state, this territory is not at all well

known, but I had secured as a guide a man named Vadi--or that was the

name he gave me whom I knew to be a high-caste Brahmin of good family.

He had been with me for some time, and I thought I could trust

him. Therefore, once clear of British territory, I took him into my

confidence respecting the real object of my journey.

“This was not primarily to scale a peak of the Himalayas, nor even to

visit Khatmandu, but to endeavour to obtain a glimpse of the Temple of

Fire!

“That has excited your curiosity, gentlemen. I don’t suppose any one

here has ever heard of the Temple of Fire.

“By some it is regarded as a sort of native legend but it is more than a

legend. It is a fact. For seven years I have known it to be a fact, but

my tongue has been tied. Listen. Even down in Bombay, the coming of the

next great Master is awaited by certain of the natives; and for more

than ten years now it has been whispered from end to end of India that

he was about to proclaim himself, that disciples moved secretly among

the people of every province, and that the unknown teacher in person

awaited his hour in a secret temple up near the Tibetan frontier.

“A golden key opens many doors, gentlemen, and at the time of which I am

speaking I had obtained more information respecting this secret religion

or cult than any other member of the white races had ever collected,

or so I thought at the time. I had definite evidence to show that the

existence of this man, or demi-god--for by some he was said to possess

superhuman powers--was no myth, but an actual fact.

“The collecting of this data was extremely perilous, and one of my

informants, with whom I had come in contact while passing through the

central provinces, died mysteriously the night before I left Nagpur. I

wondered very much on my way north why I was not molested, for I did not

fail to see that the death of the man in Nagpur was connected with the

fact that he had divulged to me some of the secrets of the religion of

Fire-Tongue. Indeed, it was from him that I first learned the name of

the high priest of the cult of Fire. Why I was not molested I learned

later.

“But to return to Vadi, my Brahmin guide. We had camped for the night

in the shadow of one of those giant tors which I have mentioned. The

bearers were seated around their fire at some little distance from us,

and Vadi and I were consulting respecting our route in the morning, when

I decided to take him into my confidence. Accordingly:

“‘Vadi,’ I said, ‘I know for a positive fact that we are within ten

miles of the secret Temple of Fire.’

“I shall never forget the look in his eyes, with the reflection of the

firelight dancing in them; but he never moved a muscle.

“‘The sahib is wise,’ he replied.

“‘So is Vadi,’ said I. ‘Therefore he knows how happy a thousand pounds

of English money would make him. It is his in return for a sight of the

Temple.’

“Still as a carven image, he squatted there watching me, unmoving,

expressionless. Then:

“‘A man may die for nothing,’ he returned, softly. ‘Why should the sahib

pay a thousand pounds?’

“‘Why should the sahib die?’ said I.

“‘It is forbidden for any to see the Temple, even from a distance.’

“‘But if no one ever knows that I have seen it?’

“‘Fire-Tongue knows everything,’ he replied, and as he pronounced the

name, he performed a curious salutation, touching his forefinger with

the tip of his tongue, and then laying his hand upon his brow, upon

his lips, and upon his breast, at the same time bowing deeply. ‘His

vengeance is swift and terrible. He wills a man to die, and the man is

dead. None save those who have passed through the tests may set eyes

upon his temple, nor even speak his name.’

“This conversation took place, as I have already mentioned, in the

shadow of one of those strange stone hillocks which abounded here, and

it was at this point that I received a warning which might have deterred

many men, since it was inexplicable and strangely awesome.

“My attention was drawn to the phenomenon by a sudden cessation of

chatter amongst the bearers seated around their fire. I became aware

that an absolute stillness had fallen, and in the eyes of the Brahmin

who sat facing me I saw a look of exaltation, of wild fanaticism.

“I jerked my head around, looking back over my shoulder, and what I saw

I shall never forget, nor to this day have I been able to explain the

means by which the illusion was produced.

“Moving downward toward me through the jungle darkness, slowly, evenly,

but at a height above the ground of what I judged to be about fifteen

feet, was a sort of torch or flambeau, visible because it was faintly

luminous; and surmounting it was a darting tongue of blue flame!

“At the moment that I set eyes upon this apparently supernatural

spectacle the bearers, crying some word in Hindustani which I did not

understand, rose and fled in a body.

“I may say here that I never saw any of them again; although,

considering that they took nothing with them, how they regained the

nearest village is a mystery which I have never solved.

“Gentlemen, I know the East as few of my fellow-citizens know it. I know

something of the powers which are latent in some Orientals and active in

others. That my Brahmin guide was a hypnotist and an illusionist, I have

since thought.

“For, even as the pattering footsteps of the bearers grew faint in the

distance, the fiery torch disappeared as if by magic, and a silken cord

was about my throat!

“As I began a desperate fight for life, I realized that, whatever else

Vadi might be, he was certainly an expert thug. The jungle, the rocks,

seemed to swim around me as I crashed to the ground and felt the

Brahmin’s knee in the small of my back.”

CHAPTER XXXI. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)

“How I managed to think of any defense against such an attack, and

especially in the circumstances, is a matter I have often wondered

about since. How, having thought of it, I succeeded in putting it into

execution, is probably more wonderful still. But I will just state what

happened.

“You may observe that I have large hands. Their size and strength served

me well on this occasion. At the moment that the rope tightened about

my throat I reached up and grasped the Brahmin’s left thumb. Desperation

gave me additional strength, and I snapped it like a stick of candy.

“Just in the nick of time I felt the cord relax, and, although the veins

in my head seemed to be bursting, I managed to get my fingers under that

damnable rope. To this very hour I can hear Vadi’s shriek of pain as I

broke his thumb, and it brings the whole scene back to me.

“Clutching the rope with my left hand, I groaned and lay still. The

Brahmin slightly shifted his position, which was what I wanted him to

do. The brief respite had been sufficient. As he moved, I managed

to draw my knees up, very slightly, for he was a big, heavy man, but

sufficiently to enable me to throw him off and roll over.

“Then, gentlemen, I dealt with him as he had meant to deal with me; only

I used my bare hands and made a job of it.

“I stood up, breathing heavily, and looked down at him where he lay in

the shadows at my feet. Dusk had come with a million stars, and almost

above my head were flowering creepers festooned from bough to bough. The

two campfires danced up and cast their red light upon the jagged rocks

of the hillock, which started up from the very heart of the thicket, to

stand out like some giant pyramid against the newly risen moon.

“There were night things on the wing, and strange whispering sounds came

from the forests clothing the hills. Then came a distant, hollow booming

like the sound of artillery, which echoed down the mountain gorges and

seemed to roll away over the lowland swamps and die, inaudible, by the

remote river. Yet I stood still, looking down at the dead man at my

feet. For this strange, mysterious artillery was a phenomenon I had

already met with on this fateful march--weird enough and inexplicable,

but no novelty to me, for I had previously met with it in the Shan Hills

of Burma.

“I was thinking rapidly. It was clear enough now why I had hitherto

been unmolested. To Vadi the task had been allotted by the mysterious

organization of which he was a member, of removing me quietly and

decently, under circumstances which would lead to no official inquiry.

Although only animals, insects, and reptiles seemed to be awake about

me, yet I could not get rid of the idea that I was watched.

“I remembered the phantom light, and that memory was an unpleasant

one. For ten minutes or more I stood there watching and listening, but

nothing molested me, nothing human approached. With a rifle resting

across my knees, I sat down in the entrance to my tent to await the

dawn.

“Later in the night, those phantom guns boomed out again, and again

their booming died away in the far valleys. The fires burned lower and

lower, but I made no attempt to replenish them; and because I sat there

so silent, all kinds of jungle creatures crept furtively out of the

shadows and watched me with their glittering eyes. Once a snake crossed

almost at my feet, and once some large creature of the cat species,

possibly a puma, showed like a silhouette upon the rocky slopes above.

“So the night passed, and dawn found me still sitting there, the dead

man huddled on the ground not three paces from me. I am a man who as a

rule thinks slowly, but when the light came my mind was fully made up.

“From the man who had died in Nagpur I had learned more about the

location of the City of Fire than I had confided to Vadi. In fact, I

thought I could undertake to find the way. Upon the most important point

of all, however, I had no information: that is to say, I had no idea how

to obtain entrance to the place; for I had been given to understand that

the way in was a secret known only to the initiated.

“Nevertheless, I had no intention of turning back; and, although I

realized that from this point onward I must largely trust to luck, I

had no intention of taking unnecessary chances. Accordingly, I dressed

myself in Vadi’s clothes, and, being very tanned at this time, I think I

made a fairly creditable native.

“Faintly throughout the night, above the other sounds of the jungle, I

had heard that of distant falling water. Now, my informant at Nagpur, in

speaking of the secret temple, had used the words:

“‘Whoever would see the fire must quit air and pass through water.’

“This mysterious formula he had firmly declined to translate into

comprehensible English; but during my journey I had been considering

it from every angle, and I had recently come to the conclusion that the

entrance to this mysterious place was in some way concealed by water.

Recollecting the gallery under Niagara Falls, I wondered if some similar

natural formation was to be looked for here.

“Now, in the light of the morning sun, looking around me from the little

plateau upon which I stood, and remembering a vague description of the

country which had been given to me, I decided that I was indeed in the

neighbourhood of the Temple of Fire.

“We had followed a fairly well-defined path right to this plateau,

and that it was nothing less than the high road to the citadel of

Fire-Tongue, I no longer doubted. Beneath me stretched a panorama limned

in feverish greens and unhealthy yellows. Scar-like rocks striated the

jungle clothing the foothills, and through the dancing air, viewed from

the arid heights, they had the appearance of running water.

“Swamps to the southeast showed like unhealing wounds upon the face of

the landscape. Beyond them spread the lower river waters, the bank

of the stream proper being discernible only by reason of a greater

greenness in the palm-tops. Venomous green slopes beyond them again, a

fringe of dwarf forest, and the brazen skyline.

“On the right, and above me yet, the path entered a district of volcanic

rocks, gnarled, twisted, and contorted as with the agonies of some

mighty plague which in a forgotten past had seized on the very bowels of

the world and had contorted whole mountains and laid waste vast forests

and endless plains. Above, the sun, growing hourly more cruel; ahead,

more plague-twisted rocks and the scars dancing like running water; and

all around the swooning stillness of the tropics.

“The night sounds of the jungle had ceased, giving place to the

ceaseless humming of insects. North, south, east, and west lay that haze

of heat, like a moving mantle clothing hills and valleys. The sound of

falling water remained perceptible.

“And now, gentlemen, I must relate a discovery which I had made in the

act of removing Vadi’s clothing. Upon his right forearm was branded

a mark resembling the apparition which I had witnessed in the night,

namely, a little torch, or flambeau, surmounted by a tongue of fire.

Even in the light of the morning, amid that oppressive stillness, I

could scarcely believe in my own safety, for that to Vadi the duty

of assassinating me had been assigned by this ever-watchful, secret

organization, whose stronghold I had dared to approach, was a fact

beyond dispute.

“Since I seemed to be quite alone on the plateau, I could only suppose

that the issue had been regarded as definitely settled, that no doubt

had been entertained by Vadi’s instructors respecting his success. The

plateau upon which I stood was one of a series of giant steps, and on

the west was a sheer descent to a dense jungle, where banks of rotten

vegetation, sun-dried upon the top, lay heaped about the tree stems.

“Dragging the heavy body of Vadi to the brink of this precipice, I

toppled it over, swaying dizzily as I watched it crash down into the

poisonous undergrowth two hundred feet below.

“I made a rough cache, where I stored the bulk of my provisions; and,

selecting only such articles as I thought necessary for my purpose,

I set out again northward, guided by the sound of falling water, and

having my face turned toward the silver pencillings in the blue sky,

which marked the giant peaks of the distant mountains.

“At midday the heat grew so great that a halt became imperative. The

path was still clearly discernible; and in a little cave beside it,

which afforded grateful shelter from the merciless rays of the sun, I

unfastened my bundle and prepared to take a frugal lunch.

“I was so employed, gentlemen, when I heard the sound of approaching

footsteps on the path behind me--the path which I had recently

traversed.

“Hastily concealing my bundle, I slipped into some dense undergrowth by

the entrance to the cave, and crouched there, waiting and watching.

I had not waited very long before a yellow-robed mendicant passed by,

carrying a bundle not unlike my own, whereby I concluded that he had

come some distance. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance

except the fact of his travelling during the hottest part of the day.

Therefore I did not doubt that he was one of the members of the secret

organization and was bound for headquarters.

“I gave him half an hour’s start and then resumed my march. If he could

travel beneath a noonday sun, so could I.

“In this fashion I presently came out upon a larger and higher plateau,

carpeted with a uniform, stunted undergrowth, and extending, as flat as

a table, to the very edge of a sheer precipice, which rose from it to

a height of three or four hundred feet--gnarled, naked rock, showing no

vestige of vegetation.

“By this time the sound of falling water had become very loud, and as I

emerged from the gorge through which the path ran on to this plateau

I saw, on the further side of this tableland, the yellow robe of the

mendicant. He was walking straight for the face of the precipice, and

straight for the spot at which, from a fissure in the rock, a little

stream leapt out, to fall sheerly ten or fifteen feet into a winding

channel, along which it bubbled away westward, doubtless to form a

greater waterfall beyond.

“The mendicant was fully half a mile away from me, but in that clear

tropical air was plainly visible; and, fearing that he might look

around, I stepped back into the comparative shadow of the gorge and

watched.

“Gentlemen, I saw a strange thing. Placing his bundle upon his head, he

walked squarely into the face of the waterfall and disappeared!”

CHAPTER XXXII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)

“‘Quitting air, must pass through water.’ The meaning of those words

became apparent enough. I stood at the foot of the waterfall, looking up

at the fissure from which it issued.

“Although the fact had been most artistically disguised, I could not

doubt that this fissure was artificial. A tunnel had been hewn through

the rock, and a mountain stream diverted into it. Indeed, on close

inspection, I saw that it was little more than a thin curtain of water,

partly concealing what looked like the entrance of a cave.

“A great deal of mist arose from it. But I could see that, beyond a

ducking, I had little to fear; and, stepping down into the bed of the

little stream which frothed and bubbled pleasantly about my bare legs, I

set my bundle on my head as the mendicant had done, and plunged through

the waterfall, into a place of delicious coolness.

“A strange greenish light prevailed here and directly before me I saw

a flight of stone steps leading upward through a tunnel in the rock. By

the light of a pocket torch with which I had provided myself, I began

to ascend the steps. These, as I have said, were hewn out of the solid

rock, and as they numbered something like seven hundred, the labour

expended upon the making of this extraordinary staircase must have been

stupendous.

“At first the character of the surrounding tunnel suggested that it was,

in part at least, a natural cavern. But as I mounted higher and

higher, solid masonry appeared in places, some of it displaying unusual

carvings, of a character with which I was quite unfamiliar. I concluded

that it was very ancient.

“I should explain, gentlemen, that this ascending tunnel zigzagged in

a peculiar fashion, which may have been due to the natural formation of

the volcanic rock, or may have been part of the design of the original

builder. I had ascended more than five hundred steps, and felt that a

rest would shortly be necessary, when I reached a sort of cavern, or

interior platform, from which seven corridors branched out like the

spokes of a wheel. The top of this place was lost in shadows, which the

ray of my torch failed to penetrate; and here I paused, setting down my

bundle and wondering what my next move should be.

“To the damp coolness of the lower stairs an oppressive heat had now

succeeded, and I became aware of a continuous roaring sound, which I

found myself unable to explain.

“Attached to a belt beneath my native dress I carried a Colt revolver;

and therefore, leaving my rifle and bundle in a corner of the cavern, I

selected one of these corridors more or less at random, and set out

to explore. This corridor proved to slope very gently upward from the

platform, and I could not fail to notice that at every step the heat

grew greater and greater. A suffocating, sulphurous smell became

perceptible also, and the roaring sound grew almost deafening. It became

possible to discern the walls of the corridor ahead because of a sort of

eerie bluish light which had now become visible.

“Gentlemen, I don’t say that I hesitated in a physical sense: I went

right on walking ahead. But a voice somewhere deep down inside me was

whispering that this was the road to hell.

“At a point where the heat and the smell were almost unendurable the

corridor was blocked by massive iron bars beyond which the reflection of

some gigantic fire danced upon the walls of a vast cavern.

“The heat was so great that my garments, saturated by the curtain of

water through which I had passed, were now bone dry, and I stood peering

through those bars at a spectacle which will remain with me to the

merciful day of my death.

“A hundred feet beneath me was a lake of fire! That is the only way I

can describe it: a seething, bubbling lake of fire. And above, where the

roof of the cavern formed a natural cone, was a square section formed of

massive stone blocks, and quite obviously the handiwork of man. The

bars were too hot to touch, and the heat was like that of a furnace, but

while I stood, peering first upward and then downward, a thing happened

which I almost hesitate to describe, for it sounds like an incident from

a nightmare.

“Heralded by a rumbling sound which was perceptible above the roar of

the fire below, the centre block in the roof slid open. A tremendous

draught of air swept along the passage in which I was standing, and

doubtless along other passages which opened upon this hell-pit.

“As if conjured up by magic, a monstrous column of blue flame arose,

swept up scorchingly, and licked like the tongue of a hungry dragon upon

the roof of the cavern. Instantly the trap was closed again; the tongue

of fire dropped back into the lake from which it had arisen on the

draught of air.

“And right past me where I stood, rigid with horror, looking through

those bars, fell a white-robed figure--whether man or woman I could not

determine! Down, down into the fiery pit, a hundred feet below!

“One long-drawn, dying shriek reached my ears.

“Of my return to the place at which I had left my bundle and rifle I

retain absolutely not one recollection. I was aroused from a sort

of stupor of horror by the sight of a faint light moving across the

platform ahead of me, as I was about to emerge from the tunnel.

“It was the light of a lantern, carried by a man who might have been the

double of that yellow-robed mendicant who had first unconsciously led me

to this accursed place.

“I won’t deny that, up to the moment of sighting him, my one idea had

been to escape, to return, to quit this unholy spot. But now, as I

watched the bearer of the lantern cross the platform and enter one of

the seven corridors, that old, unquenchable thirst for new experiences

got me by the throat again.

“As the light of the lantern was swallowed up in the passage, I found my

bundle and rifle and set out to follow the man. Four paces brought me

to the foot of more steps. I walked barefooted, frequently pausing to

listen. There were many carvings upon the walls, but I had no leisure to

examine them.

“Contrary to my anticipations, however, there were no branches in this

zigzag staircase, which communicated directly with the top of the lofty

plateau. When presently I felt the fresh mountain air upon my face, I

wondered why I could perceive no light ahead of me. Yet the reason was

simple enough.

“Since I had passed through that strange watergate to the City of Fire,

the day had ended: it was night. And when, finding no further steps

ahead of me, I passed along a level, narrow corridor for some ten paces

and, looking upward, saw the stars, I was astounded.

“The yellow-robed man had disappeared, and I stood alone, looking down

upon that secret city which I had come so far to see.

“I found myself standing in deep undergrowth, and, pressing this gently

aside, I saw a wonderful spectacle. Away to my left was a great white

marble building, which I judged to be a temple; and forming a crescent

before it was a miniature town, each white-walled house surrounded by a

garden. It was Damascus reduced to fairy dimensions, a spectacle quite

unforgettable.

“The fact which made the whole thing awesome and unreal was the

presence, along the top of the temple (which, like that of Hatshepsu at

Deir elBahari, seemed to be hewn out of the living rock but was faced

with white marble) of seven giant flambeaux, each surmounted by a

darting tongue of blue flame!

“Legend had it that this was the temple built by Zoroaster and preserved

intact by that wonderful secretiveness of the Orient through the

generations, by a cult who awaited the coming of Zoroaster’s successor,

of that Fire-Tongue who was to redeem and revolutionize the world.

“I was afraid to move too far from the mouth of the tunnel, but

nevertheless was anxious to obtain a good view of the little city at my

feet. Gingerly I moved farther forward and forward, ever craning out for

a glimpse of the buildings more immediately below me, forgetful of the

fact that I walked upon the brink of a precipice.

“Suddenly my outstretched foot failed to touch ground. I clutched wildly

at the bushes around me. Their roots were not firm in the shallow soil,

and, enveloped like some pagan god in a mass of foliage, I toppled over

the cliff and fell!”

CHAPTER XXXIII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)

“My awakening was as strange as anything which had befallen me. I lay

upon a silken bed in a pavilion which was furnished with exquisite, if

somewhat barbaric, taste.

“A silken shaded lamp hung upon a golden chain near to my couch, but it

was dimmed by the rosy light streaming in through the open door--a light

which I believed to be that of dawn. I ached in every limb and felt weak

and ill. There was a bandage about my head, too, but this great physical

weakness numbed my curiosity, and I just lay still, looking out through

the doorway into a lovely garden. I could form no impression of what had

happened, and the ceaseless throbbing in my head rendered any attempt to

do so very painful.

“I was lying there, in this curious and apathetic state, when the

curtains draped in the doorway were pulled more widely aside and a woman

came in.

“Gentlemen, I will not endeavour to describe her, except to say that she

was so darkly lovely that I doubted the evidence of my senses; tall and

lithe, with the grace of some beautiful jungle creature.

“When she saw that I was awake, she paused and lowered her head in

confusion. She wore a gossamer robe of sheeny golden silk, and, standing

there with the light of the dawn behind her, she made a picture that I

think would have driven a painter crazy.

“I am supposed to be an unimpressionable man, and perhaps it is true;

but there at that moment, as the glance of her dark eyes met the

wondering look in mine, I knew that my hour had come for good or ill.

“This is not the time nor the place for personal reminiscences. I am

here for another purpose. One of those accidents which are really due

to the hand of fate had precipitated me into the garden of the house of

Naida, and she in her great compassion had tended me and sheltered me,

keeping my presence secret from those who would have dealt with me in

summary fashion, and, indeed, who were actually on the look-out for my

arrival.

“Yes, so Naida informed me. To my great surprise she spoke almost

perfect English, and that sort of understanding sprang up between us

immediately which, in the case of a man and a beautiful woman thrown

together as we were, can only terminate in one way.

“She was some sort of priestess of the temple which I had seen from the

top of the cliff. What else she was I very shortly learned.

“In accordance with one of the many strange customs of the City of Fire,

her personal servants, or rather slaves, were blind mutes! Gentlemen,

I warned you that my story was tough. Doubtless you are beginning to

appreciate the fact that I spoke no more than the truth.

“Naida, for such was her name, told me that the Brahmin, Vadi, who had

acted as my guide, was one of the followers of the Prophet of Fire, to

whom had been given the duty of intercepting me. His failure to report

within a certain time had resulted in two of the priests of this

strange cult being sent out to obtain information. That these were the

yellow-robed mendicants who had passed me in the mountains, I did not

doubt.

“Their reports, so Naida informed me, had led to a belief that Vadi

had perished with me; but as an extra measure of precaution, that very

night--indeed, shortly after I had passed that way--a guard had been set

upon the secret entrance. Therefore, even if my strength had permitted,

I should have been unable to return by the way I had come.

“But indeed I was as weak as a child, and only to the presence of much

foliage upon the acclivity down which I had rolled, and to the fact that

I had fallen upon soft soil in a bed of flowers, can I ascribe my having

failed to break my neck.

“In this way, gentlemen, I entered upon a brief period of my life at

once more sweet and more bitter than any I had known. Next to that

strange, invisible prophet whose name was Fire-Tongue, Naida held

unquestioned sway in this secret city. Her house was separated from the

others, and she travelled to and from the temple in a covered litter. To

look upon her, as upon Fire-Tongue himself, was death. Women, I learned,

were eligible for admission to this order, and these were initiated by

Naida.

“As the days of my strange but delightful captivity wore on, I learned

more and more of the weird people who, unseen, surrounded me. There were

lodges of the Cult of Fire all over the East, all having power to make

initiates and some to pass disciples into the higher grades. Those who

aspired to the highest rank in the order, however, were compelled to

visit this secret city in the Indian hills.

“Then at last I learned a secret which Naida had for long kept back from

me. These followers of the new Zoroaster were polygamists, and she

was the first or chief wife of the mysterious personage known as

Fire-Tongue. I gathered that others had superseded her, and her lord and

master rarely visited this marble house set amid its extensive gardens.

“Her dignities remained, however, and no one had aspired to dethrone her

as high priestess of the temple. She evidently knew all the secrets of

the organization, and I gathered that she was indispensable to the group

who controlled it.

“Respecting Fire-Tongue himself, his origin, his appearance, she was

resolutely silent, a second Acte, faithful to the last. That the ends of

this cult were not only religious but political, she did not deny, but

upon this point she was very reticent. An elaborate system of espionage

was established throughout the East, Near and Far, and death was the

penalty of any breach of fidelity.

“Respecting the tests to which candidates were put, she spoke with more

freedom. Those who, having reached the second grade, aspired to the

first, were submitted to three very severe ones, to make trial of their

courage, purity, and humility. Failure in any of these trials resulted

in instant death, and the final test, the trial by fire, which took

place in a subterranean chamber of the great temple, resulted in a

candidate whose courage failed him being precipitated into that lake of

flame which I have already described--a dreadful form of death, which by

accident I had witnessed.

“Gentlemen, realizing what the existence of such an organization meant,

what a menace to the peace of the world must lie here, what dreadful

things were almost hourly happening about me at behest of this invisible

monster known as Fire-Tongue, I yet confess--for I am here to speak the

truth--that, although I had now fully recovered my strength, I lingered

on in a delicious idleness, which you who hear me must find it hard to

understand.

“I have the reputation of being a cold, hard man. So had Antony before

he met Cleopatra. But seven years ago, under the Indian moon, I learned

tolerance for the human weakness which forgets the world for the smiles

of a woman.

“It had to end. Sooner or later, discovery was inevitable. One night I

told Naida that I must go. Over the scene that followed I will pass in

silence. It needed all the strength of a fairly straight, hard life to

help me keep to my decision.

“She understood at last, and consented to release me. But there were

obstacles--big ones. The snow on the lower mountain slopes had begun to

melt, and the water-gate in the valley by which I had entered was now

impassable. As a result, I must use another gate, which opened into a

mountain path, but which was always guarded. At first, on hearing this,

I gave myself up for lost, but Naida had a plan.

“Removing a bangle which she always wore, she showed me the secret mark

of Fire-Tongue branded upon the creamy skin.

“‘I will put this mark upon your arm,’ she said. ‘In no other way can

you escape. I will teach you some of the passwords by which the brethren

know one another, and if you are ever questioned you will say that you

were admitted to the order by the Master of the Bombay Lodge, news of

whose death has just reached us.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘how can I hope to pass for an Oriental?’

“‘It does not matter,’ Naida replied. ‘There are some who are not

Orientals among us!’