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...”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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 defence.
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.