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Page 76
The blue tongue of flame subsided, lower and lower, and finally
disappeared, so that the apartment became enwrapped in absolute
darkness. A faint rustling sound suggested that a heavy curtain
had been lowered, and almost immediately the doors behind Nicol
Brinn were opened again by Rama Dass.
"We congratulate you, brother," he said, extending his hand. "Yet
the ordeal was no light one, for all the force of the Fire was
focussed upon you."
Nicol Brinn reentered the room where the shaded lamp stood upon
the writing table. In the past he had moved unscathed through
peril unknown to the ordinary man. He was well acquainted with
the resources of the organization whose agents, unseen,
surrounded him in that remote country house, but that their
pretensions were extravagant his present immunity would seem to
prove.
If the speaker with the strangely arresting voice were indeed
that Fire-Tongue whose mere name was synonymous with dread in
certain parts of the East, then Fire-Tongue was an impostor. He
who claimed to read the thoughts of all men had signally failed
in the present instance, unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the
smiling face of Rama Dass. Not yet must he congratulate himself.
Perhaps the Hindu's smile concealed as much as the mask worn by
Nicol Brinn.
"We congratulate you," said Rama Dass. "You are a worthy
brother."
He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn
automatically acknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass
led the way to the door.
Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut,
his brain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest
him. He was assisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his
hands. Then, the front door being opened, he saw the headlights
of the waiting car shining on a pillar of the porch.
A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine,
and as it moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay
back upon the cushions and uttered a long sigh.
Already he divined that, following a night's sleep, these scenes
would seem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he
raised his hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly
damp.
"No wonder," he muttered.
Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his
dinner jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then,
selecting a long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram
of the late Czar of Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in
the tray, and lolling back in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.
Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His only
actions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were
locked again, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone
of ash in the tray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car
drew up and a door was unlocked by the chauffeur.
Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before
the porch of the Cavalry Club.
The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel.
Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol
Brinn scarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it
was not that under which the car was registered. His interest, on
the contrary, was entirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce,
which was evidently awaiting some visitor or member of the club.
Glancing shrewdly at the chauffeur, a smart, military-looking
fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a card from his waistcoat pocket, and
resting it upon a wing in the light of one of the lamps, wrote
something rapidly upon it in pencil.
Returning the pencil to his pocket:
"Whose car, my man?" he inquired of the chauffeur.
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