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Page 21
"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."
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