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Page 23
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."
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