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Page 72
"Long journeys," muttered the inspector. "Did he make a long
journey? I wonder--I wonder."
CHAPTER XXI. THE SEVENTH KAMA
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.
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