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Page 51
"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."
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