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Page 20
"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.
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