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FIRE-TONGUE
BY SAX ROHMER

MCKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE
NEW YORK


XD 17305
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIERAN
-
-
-
-
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.


CONTENTS
CBAPTER
I. A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY . . . .
II. THE SIXTH SENSE . . . . . . ..
III. Shadows ........
IV. INTRODUCING MR. NicoL BRINN .
V. “The GATES OF HELL”. . . . .
VI. Phil ABINGDON ARRIVES ...
VII. CONFESSIONS . . . . . . .
VIII. A WREATH OF HYACINTHS ...
IX. Two REPORTS . . . . . .
X. His EXCELLENCY ORMÔZ KHÂN . .
XI. THE PURPLE STAIN . . . . . . .
XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED . . . . . . .
XIII. Nicol BRINN HAS A VISITOR . . . .
XIV. Wessex Gets Busy .... .
XV. Naida ..........
XVI. NicoL BRINN Goes Out .....
XVII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY. ...
119
134


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGL
XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (continued) 176
XIX. WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY (concluded) 181
XX. CONFLICTING CLUES . . . . . . 187
XXI. The Seventh Kama .....
XXII. Fire-TONGUE SPEAKS ...
XXIII. Phil ABINGDON'S VISITOR . . . .
XXIV. THE SCREEN OF GOLD . . . . . 217
XXV. AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR . ..
XXVI. THE ORCHID OF SLEEP. . . . .
XXVII. At HillsIDE . . . . . . . .
XXVIII. The CHASE . . . . . . . . 248
XXIX. THE CATASTROPHE . . . . . 255
XXX. NicoL BRINN's STORY OF THE CITY OF
FIRE . . . . . . . . . 268
XXXI. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued) 275
XXXII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued) 283
XXXIII. STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (continued) 290
XXXIV. NICOL BRINN'S STORY (concluded). . 298


FIRE-TONGUE
CHAPTER I
A CLIENT' FOR PAUL HARLEY
YOME of Paul Harley's most interesting cases
were brought to his notice in an almost ac-
cidental way. Although he closed his office
in Chancery Lane sharply at the hour of six, the
hour of six by no means marked the end of his
business day. His work was practically ceaseless.
But even in times of leisure, at the club or theatre,
fate would sometimes cast in his path the first slender
thread which was ultimately to lead him into some
unsuspected labyrinth, perhaps in the underworld
of London, perhaps in a city of the Far East.
His investigation of the case of the man with the
shaven skull afforded an instance of this, and even
more notable was his first meeting with Major Jack
Ragstaff of the Cavalry Club, a meeting which took
place after the office had been closed, but which led
to the unmasking of perhaps the most cunning
murderer in the annals of crime.
One summer's evening when the little clock upon


FIRE-TONGUE
his table was rapidly approaching the much-desired
hour, Harley lay back in his chair and stared medita-
tively across his private office in the direction of a
large and very handsome Burmese cabinet, which
seemed strangely out of place amid the filing drawers,
bookshelves, and other usual impedimenta of a pro-
fessional man. A peculiarly uninteresting week was
drawing to a close, and he was wondering if this
betokened a decreased activity in the higher criminal
circles, or whether it was merely one of those usual
quiescent periods which characterize every form of
warfare.
Paul Harley, although the fact was unknown to
the general public, occupied something of the posi-
tion of an unofficial field marshal of the forces arrayed
against evildoers. Throughout the war he had
undertaken confidential work of the highest impor-
tance, especially in regard to the Near East, with
which he was intimately acquainted. A member
of the English bar, and the last court of appeal to
which Home Office and Foreign Office alike came in
troubled times, the brass plate upon the door of his
unassuming premises in Chancery Lane conveyed
little or nothing to the uninitiated.
The man himself, with his tropical bronze and air
of eager vitality, must have told the most careless
observer that he stood in the presence of an extraor-
dinary personality. He was slightly gray at the
temples in these days, but young in mind and body,


A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY 3
physically fit, and possessed of an intellectual
keenness which had forced recognition from two
hemispheres. His office was part of an old city
residence, and his chambers adjoined his workroom,
so that now, noting that his table clock registered
the hour of six, he pressed a bell which summoned
Innes, his confidential secretary.
“Well, Innes,” said Harley, looking around,
“another uneventful day.”
“Very uneventful, Mr. Harley. About a month of
this and you will have to resume practice at the bar.”
Paul Harley laughed.
“Not a bit likely, Innes,” he replied. “No more
briefs for me. I shall retire to Norfolk and devote
my declining years to fishing.”
"I don't know that fishing would entirely satisfy
me," said Innes.
“It would more than satisfy me," returned Harley.
“But every man to his own ambition. Well, there
is no occasion to wait; you might as well get along.
But what's that you've got in your hand?”
“Well,” replied Innes, laying a card upon the
table, “I was just coming in with it when you rang."
Paul Harley glanced at the card.
“Sir Charles Abingdon," he read aloud, staring
reflectively at his secretary. “That is the osteolo-
gist?":
“Yes,” answered Innes, “but I fancy he has re-
tired from practice.”


FIRE-TONGUE
“Ah," murmured Harley, “I wonder what he
wants. I suppose I had better see him, as I fancy
that he and I met casually some years ago in India. .
Ask him to come in, will you?”
Innes retiring, there presently entered a distin-
guished-looking, elderly gentleman upon whose
florid face rested an expression not unlike that of
embarrassment.
“Mr. Harley,” he began, “I feel somewhat ill at
ease in encroaching upon your time, for I am by no
means sure that my case comes within your particu-
lar province.”
“Sit down, Sir Charles," said Harley with quiet
geniality. “Officially, my working day is ended;
but if nothing comes of your visit beyond a chat it
will have been very welcome. Calcutta, was it not,
where we last met?”
“It was,” replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and
cane upon the table and sitting down rather wearily
in a big leather armchair which Harley had pushed
forward. “If I presume upon so slight an acquain-
tance, I am sorry, but I must confess that only the
fact of having met you socially encouraged me to
make this visit.”
He raised his eyes to Harley's face and gazed at
him with that peculiarly searching look which belongs
to members of his profession; but mingled with it
was an expression of almost pathetic appeal, of appeal
for understanding, for sympathy of some kind.


A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY
“Go on, Sir Charles," said Harley. He pushed
forward a box of cigars. “Will you smoke?”
“Thanks, no," was the answer.
Sir Charles evidently was oppressed by some
secret trouble, thus Harley mused silently, as, taking
out a tin of tobacco from a cabinet beside him, he
began in leisurely manner to load a briar. In this
he desired to convey that he treated the visit as that
of a friend, and also, since business was over, that
Sir Charles might without scruple speak at length
and at leisure of whatever matters had brought him
there.
“Very well, then,” began the surgeon; “I am
painfully conscious that the facts which I am in a
position to lay before you are very scanty and
unsatisfactory."
Paul Harley nodded encouragingly.
“If this were not so,” he explained, "you would
have no occasion to apply to me, Sir Charles. It is
my business to look for facts. Naturally, I do not
expect my clients to supply them.”
Sir Charles slowly nodded his head, and seemed in
some measure to recover confidence.
“Briefly, then," he said, “I believe my life is in
danger.”
“You mean that there is someone who desires
your death?”
“I do.”
“H'm,” said Harley, replacing the tin in the cup-
e


FIRE-TONGUE
board and striking a match. “Even if the facts
are scanty, no doubt you have fairly substantial
grounds for such a suspicion?”
“I cannot say that they are substantial, Mr.
Harley. They are rather more circumstantial.
Frankly, I have forced myself to come here, and
now that I have intruded upon your privacy, I
realize my difficulties more keenly than ever."
The expression of embarrassment upon the speaks
er's face had grown intense; and now he paused,
bending forward in his chair. He seemed in his glance
to appeal for patience on the part of his hearer, and
Harley, lighting his pipe, nodded in understanding
fashion. He was the last man in the world to jump
to conclusions. He had learned by bitter experience
that lightly to dismiss such cases as this of Sir Charles
as coming within the province of delusion, was some
times tantamount to refusing aid to a man in deadly
peril.
“You are naturally anxious for the particulars,"
Sir Charles presently resumed. “They bear, ]
regret to say, a close resemblance to the symptoms
of a well-known form of hallucination. In short,
with one exception, they may practically all be
classed under the head of surveillance."
“Surveillance," said Paul Harley. “You mean
that you are more or less constantly followed?”
"I do."
“And what is your impression of this follower?”


A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY 7
>
“A very hazy one. To-night, as I came to your
office, I have every reason to believe that someone
followed me in a taxicab.”
“You came in a car?”
“I did.”
“And a cab followed you the whole way?”
“Practically the whole way, except that as my
chauffeur turned into Chancery Lane, the cab stop-
ped at the corner of Fleet Street.”
“Your idea is that your pursuer followed on foot
from this point?”
“Such was my impression.”
"H’m, quite impossible. And is this sort of thing
constant, Sir Charles?”
“It has been for some time past.”
“Anything else?”
“One very notable thing, Mr. Harley. I was
actually assaulted less than a week ago within sight
of my own house."
“Indeed! Tell me of this.” Paul Harley be-
me aware of an awakening curiosity. Sir Charles
Abingdon was not the type of man who is lightly
intimidated.
"I had been to visit a friend in the neighbour-
hood," Sir Charles continued, “whom I am at present
attending professionally, although I am actually
retired. I was returning across the square, close
to midnight, when, fortunately for myself, I detected
the sound of light, pattering footsteps immediately
cal


FIRE-TONGUE
behind me. The place was quite deserted at that
hour, and although I was so near home, the worst
would have happened, I fear, if my sense of hearing
had been less acute. I turned in the very instant
that a man was about to spring upon me from
behind. He was holding in his hand what looked
like a large silk handkerchief. This encounter took
place in the shadow of some trees, and beyond the
fact that my assailant was a small man, I could
form no impression of his identity.”
“What did you do?”
“I turned and struck out with my stick."
“And then?" .
“Then he made no attempt to contest the issue,
but simply ran swiftly off, always keeping in the
shadows of the trees."
“Very strange,” murmured Harley. “Do you
think he had meant to drug you?”
“Maybe," replied Sir Charles. “The handker-
chief was perhaps saturated with some drug, or he
may even have designed to attempt to strangle me.”
“And you formed absolutely no impression of
the man?”
"None whatever, Mr. Harley. When you see
the spot at which the encounter took place, if you
care to do so, you will recognize the difficulties. It
is perfectly dark there after nightfall.”
“H'm,” mused Harley. “A very alarming occur-
rence, Sir Charles. It must have shaken you very
nn0


A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY 9
badly. But we must not overlook the possibility
that this may have been an ordinary footpad.”
“His methods were scarcely those of a footpad,”
murmured Sir Charles.
"I quite agree,” said Harley. “They were rather
Oriental, if I may say so."
Sir Charles Abingdon started. “Oriental!” he
whispered. “Yes, you are right.”
“Does this suggest a train of thought?” prompted
Harley.
Sir Charles Abingdon cleared his throat nervously.
"It does, Mr. Harley,” he admitted, “but a very
confusing train of thought. It leads me to a point
which I must mention, but which concerns a very
well-known man. Before I proceed I should like to
make it clear that I do not believe for a moment
that he is responsible for this unpleasant business.”
Harley stared at him curiously. “Nevertheless,"
he said, "there must be some data in your possession
which suggest to your mind that he has some con-
nection with it."
“There are, Mr. Harley, and I should be deeply
indebted if you could visit my house this evening,
when I could place this evidence, if evidence it may
be called, before you. I find myself in so delicate
a position. If you are free I should welcome your
company at dinner.”
Paul Harley seemed to be reflecting.
“Of course, Sir Charles," he said, presently, “your


10
FIRE-TONGUE
statement is very interesting and curious, and I
shall naturally make a point of going fully into the
matter. But before proceeding further there are
two questions I should like to ask you. The first is
this: What is the name of the 'well-known' man to
whom you refer? And the second: If not he then
whom do you suspect of being behind all this?”.
Sir Charles's perplexity and embarrassment grew
more and more marked.
“The one matter is so hopelessly involved in the
other,” he finally replied, “that although I came here
prepared as I thought with a full statement of the
case, I should welcome a further opportunity of
rearranging the facts before imparting them to you.
One thing, however, I have omitted to mention. It
is, perhaps, of paramount importance. There was
a robbery at my house less than a week ago."
“What! A robbery! Tell me: what was stolen?”
“Nothing of the slightest value, Mr. Harley, to
any one but myself-or so I should have supposed."
The speaker coughed nervously. “The thief had
gained admittance to my private study, where there
are several cases of Oriental jewellery and a number
of pieces of valuable gold and silverware, all antique.
At what 'hour he came, how he gained admittance,
and how he retired, I cannot imagine. All the doors
were locked as usual in the morning and nothing
was disturbed.”
“I don't understand, then.”


A CLIENT FOR PAUL HARLEY II
“I chanced to have occasion to open my bureau,
which I invariably keep locked. Immediately-
immediately—I perceived that my papers were dis-
arranged. Close examination revealed the fact that
a short manuscript in my own hand, which had been
placed in one of the pigeonholes, was missing."
“A manuscript,” murmured Harley. “Upon a
technical subject?”
“Scarcely a technical subject, Mr. Harley. It
was a brief account which I had vaguely contem-
plated publishing in one of the reviews, a brief ac-
count of a very extraordinary patient whom I once
attended.”
“And had you written it recently?”.
ome years ago. But I had recently added
to it. I may say that it was my purpose still further
to add to it, and with this object I had actually
unlocked the bureau.”
“New facts respecting this patient had come into
your possession?”
“They had.”
“Before the date of the attack upon you?”
“Before that date, yes."
"And before surveillance of your movements
began?”
“I believe so.”
“May I suggest that your patient and the 'well-
known man' to whom you referred are one and the
same?”


CHAPTER II
THE SIXTH SENSE
AUL HARLEY stepped into his car in Chan-
cery Lane. “Drive in the direction of Hyde
Park Corner,” he directed the chauffeur. “Go
along the Strand.”
Glancing neither right nor left, he entered the
car, and presently they were proceeding slowly with
the stream of traffic in the Strand. “Pull up at
the Savoy," he said suddenly through the tube.
The car slowed down in that little bay which con.
tains the entrance to the hotel, and Harley stared
fixedly out of the rear window, observing the occu.
pants of all other cars and cabs which were following.
For three minutes or more he remained there watch-
ing. “Go on,” he directed.
Again they proceeded westward and, half-way
along Piccadilly, “Stop at the Ritz," came the
order.
The car pulled up before the colonnade and
Harley, stepping out, dismissed the man and entered
the hotel, walked through to the side entrance, and
directed a porter to get him a taxicab. In this he
proceeded to the house of Sir Charles Abingdon.


14
FIRE-TONGUE
He had been seeking to learn whether hewas followed,
but in none of the faces he had scrutinized had he
detected any interest in himself, so that his idea
that whoever was watching Sir Charles in all prob-
ability would have transferred attention to himself
remained no more than an idea. For all he had
gained by his tactics, Sir Charles's theory might be
no more than a delusion after all.
The house of Sir Charles Abingdon was one of
those small, discreet establishments, the very neat-
ness of whose appointments inspires respect for the
occupant. If anything had occurred during the
journey to suggest to Harley that Sir Charles was
indeed under observation by a hidden enemy, the
suave British security and prosperity of his residence
must have destroyed the impression.
As the cab was driven away around the corner,
Harley paused for a moment, glancing about him to
right and left and up at the neatly curtained windows.
In the interval which had elapsed since Sir Charles's
departure from his office, he had had leisure to survey
the outstanding features of the story, and, discount-
ing in his absence the pathetic sincerity of the narra-
tor, he had formed the opinion that there was noth-
ing in the account which was not suspectible of an
ordinary prosaic explanation.
Sir Charles's hesitancy in regard to two of the
questions asked had contained a hint that they
might involve intimate personal matters, and Harley


THE SIXTH SENSE
15
was prepared to learn that the source of the distin-
guished surgeon's dread lay in some unrevealed
episode of the past. Beyond the fact that Sir
Charles was a widower, he knew little or nothing
of his private life; and he was far too experienced
an investigator to formulate theories until all the
facts were in his possession. Therefore it was with
keen interest that he looked forward to the interview.
Familiarity with crime, in its many complexions,
East and West, had developed in Paul Harley a sort
of sixth sense. It was an evasive, fickle thing, but
was nevertheless the attribute which had made him
an investigator of genius. Often enough it failed
him entirely. It had failed him to-night-or else
no one had followed him from Chancery Lane.
It had failed him earlier in the evening when, secretly,
he had watched from the office window Sir Charles's
car proceeding toward the Strand. That odd,
sudden chill, as of an abrupt lowering of the tempera-
ture, which often advised him of the nearness of
malignant activity, had not been experienced.
Now, standing before Sir Charles's house, he
“sensed” the atmosphere keenly—seeking for the
note of danger.
There had been a thunder shower just before he
had set out, and now, although rain had ceased, the
sky remained blackly overcast and a curious, dull
stillness was come. The air had a welcome freshness
and the glistening pavements looked delightfully


16
FIRE-TONGUE
cool after the parching heat of the day. In the quiet
square, no doubt, it was always restful in contrast
with the more busy highroads, and in the murmur
of distant traffic he found something very soothing.
About him then were peace, prosperity, and security.
Yet, as he stood there, waiting—it came to him:
the note of danger. Swiftly he looked to right and
left, trying to penetrate the premature dusk. The
whole complexion of the matter changed. Some
menace-intangible now, but which at any moment
might become evident-lay near him. It was sheer
intuition, no doubt, but it convinced him.
A moment later he had rung the bell; and as a
man opened the door, showing a cosy and well-
lighted lobby within, the fear aura no longer touched
Paul Harley. Out from the doorway came homi-
ness and that air of security and peace which had
seemed to characterize the house when viewed from
outside. The focus of menace, therefore, lay not
inside the house of Sir Charles but without. It
was very curious. In the next instant came a possi-
ble explanation.
“Mr. Paul Harley?" said the butler, tentatively.
“Yes, I am he.”
“Sir Charles is expecting you, sir. He apologizes
for not being in to receive you, but he will only be
absent a few minutes.”
“Sir Charles has been called out?” inquired
Harley as he handed hat and coat to the man.


THE SIXTH SENSE
17
“Yes, sir. He is attending Mr. Chester Wilson
on the other side of the square, and Mr. Wilson's
man rang up a few moments ago requesting Sir
Charles to step across."
“I see," murmured Harley, as the butler showed
him into a small but well-filled library on the left
of the lobby.
Refreshments were set invitingly upon a table
beside a deep lounge chair. But Harley declined the
man's request to refresh himself while waiting and
began aimlessly to wander about the room, appar-
ently studying the titles of the works crowding the
bookshelves. As a matter of fact, he was endeavour-
ing to arrange certain ideas in order, and if he had
been questioned on the subject it is improbable
that he could have mentioned the title of one book
in the library.
His mental equipment was of a character too
rarely met with in the profession to which he be-
longed. While up to the very moment of reaching
Sir Charles's house he had doubted the reality of
the menace which hung over this man, the note of
danger which he had sensed at the very threshold
had convinced him, where more ordinary circum-
stantial evidence might have left him in doubt.
It was perhaps pure imagination, but experi-
ence had taught him that it was closely allied to
clairvoyance.
Now, upon his musing there suddenly intruded


18
FIRE-TONGUE
sounds of a muffled altercation. That is to say,
the speakers, who were evidently in the lobby be
yond the library door, spoke in low tones, perhaps
in deference to the presence of a visitor. Harley
was only mildly interested, but the voices had broken
his train of thought, and when presently the door
opened to admit a very neat but rather grim-looking
old lady he started, then looked across at her with a
smile.
Some of the grimness faded from the wrinkled
old face, and the housekeeper, for this her appear-
ance proclaimed her to be, bowed in a queer Victorian
fashion which suggested that a curtsy might follow.
One did not follow, however. “I am sure I apolo-
gize, sir,” she said. “Benson did not tell me you
had arrived."
“That's quite all right,” said Harley, genially.
His smile held a hint of amusement, for in the
comprehensive glance which the old lady cast across
the library, a glance keen to detect disorder and
from which no speck of dust could hope to conceal
itself, there remained a trace of that grimness which
he had detected at the moment of her entrance.
In short, she was still bristling from a recent encoun-
ter. So much so that detecting something sym-
pathetic in Harley's smile she availed herself of the
presence of a badly arranged vase of flowers to linger
and to air her grievances.
“Servants in these times," she informed him, her


THE SIXTH SENSE
19
fingers busily rearranging the blooms, "are not what
servants were in my young days.”
“Unfortunately, that is so,” Harley agreed.
The old lady tossed her head. “I do my best,”
she continued, “but that girl would not have stayed
in the house for one week if I had had my way.
Miss Phil is altogether too soft-hearted. Thank
goodness, she goes to-morrow, though.”
“You don't refer to Miss Phil?” said Harley,
intentionally misunderstanding.
“Gracious goodness, no!” exclaimed the house-
keeper, and laughed with simple glee at the joke.
“I mean Jones, the new parlourmaid. When I
say new, they are all new, for none of them stay
longer than three months.”
“Indeed,” smiled Harley, who perceived that the
old lady was something of a martinet.
"Indeed, they don't. Think they are ladies
nowadays. Four hours off has that girl had to-day,
although she was out on Wednesday. Then she
has the impudence to allow someone to ring her up
here at the house; and finally I discover her upsetting
the table after Benson had laid it and after I had
rearranged it.”
She glanced indignantly in the direction of the
lobby. “Perhaps one day,” she concluded, pathetic-
ally, as she walked slowly from the room, "we shall
find a parlourmaid who is a parlourmaid. Good
evening, sir,"


THE SIXTH SENSE
21
He removed his gaze with reluctance from the
fascinating picture, and dropping into the big lounge
chair, he lighted a cigarette. He had just placed
the match in an ash tray when he heard Sir Charles's
voice in the lobby, and a moment later Sir Charles
himself came hurrying into the library. His ex-
pression was so peculiar that Harley started up
immediately, perceiving that something unusual
had happened.
“My dear Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, “in
the first place pray accept my apologies ”.
“None are necessary,” Harley interrupted. “Your
excellent housekeeper has entertained me vastly."
"Good, good,” muttered Sir Charles. “I am
obliged to Mrs. Howett," and it was plainly to be
seen that his thoughts were elsewhere. “But I
have to relate a most inexplicable occurrence
inexplicable unless by some divine accident the plan
has been prevented from maturing."
“What do you mean, Sir Charles?”
"I was called ten minutes ago by someone pur-
porting to be the servant of Mr. Chester Wilson,
that friend and neighbour whom I have been at-
tending."
“So your butler informed me."
“My dear sir,” cried Sir Charles, and the expres-
sion in his eyes grew almost wild, “no one in Wilson's
house knew anything about the matter!"
“What! It was a ruse?”


22
FIRE-TONGUE
“Palpably a ruse to get me away from home.”
Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray
beside the match, where, smouldering, it sent up a
gray spiral into the air of the library. Whether ·
because of his words or because of the presence of
the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had
again touched Paul Harley. “You saw or heard
nothing on your way across the square to suggest
that any one having designs on your safety was
watching you?”
“Nothing. I searched the shadows most particu-
larly on my return journey, of course. For the
thing cannot have been purposeless.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Paul Harley, quietly.
Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth
sense of his and the working of the trained deductive
reasoning powers, he was momentarily at a' loss.
Some fact, some episode, a memory, was clamouring
for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious
voice whispered: “This man is in danger; protect
him.” What was the meaning of it all? He felt
that a clue lay somewhere outside the reach of his
intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him be-
cause of his impotence to grasp it.
Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously
pathetic way which he had observed at their earlier
interview in Chancery Lane. “In any event,"
said his host, “let us dine; for already I have kept
you waiting."


THE SIXTH SENSE
23
Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the
library, entered the cosy dining room. A dreadful
premonition had claimed him as his glance had met
that of Sir Charles—a premonition that this man's
days were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving;
and whereas, at first, the atmosphere of Sir Charles
Abingdon's home had been laden with prosperous
security, now from every side, and even penetrating
to the warmly lighted dining room, came that
chilling note of danger.
In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note
that there were many Indian curios in the place,
which could not well have failed to attract the atten-
tion of a burglar. But that the person who had pene-
trated to the house was no common burglar he was
now assured and he required no further evidence
upon this point.
As he took his seat at the dining table he observed
that Sir Charles's collection had overflowed even
into this room. In the warm shadows about him
were pictures and ornaments, all of which came from,
or had been inspired by, the Far East.
In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration.
The terror which had come into Sir Charles's life,
the invisible menace which, swordlike, hung over
him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to the land
of temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the secret
land which has bred so many mysteries. Yes, he
must look into the past, into the Indian life of Sir


24
FIRE-TONGUE
Charles Abingdon, for the birth of this thing which
now had grown into a shadow almost tangible.
Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced
and very surly-looking maid, in whom Harley
thought he recognized the housekeeper's bête noire.
When presently both servants had temporarily
retired. “You see, Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles,
glancing about his own room in a manner almost
furtive, “I realized to-day at your office that the
history of this dread which has come upon me per-
haps went back so far that it was almost impossible
to acquaint you with it under the circumstances.”
"I quite understand.”
“I think perhaps I should inform you in the first
place that I have a daughter. Her mother has been
dead for many years, and perhaps I have not given
her the attention which a motherless girl is entitled
to expect from her father. I don't mean,” he said,
hastily, “that we are in any sense out of sympathy,
but latterly in some way I must confess that we have
got a little out of touch.” He glanced anxiously
at his guest, indeed almost apologetically. “You
will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that this seem-
ing preamble may prove to have a direct bearing
upon what I propose to tell you?”
“Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles,"
said Harley with sympathy. “I am all attention,
and I shall only interrupt you in the event of any
point not being quite clear."


THE SIXTH SENSE
25
• “Thank you,” said Sir Charles. “I find it so
much easier to explain the matter now. To continue,
there is a certain distinguished Oriental gentle-
man
"
He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup
plates.
“It is always delightful to chat with one who knows
India so well as you do,” he continued, glancing
significantly at his guest.
Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of
this abrupt change in the conversation, nodded in
agreement. “The call of the East,” he replied,
“is a very real thing. Only one who has heard it
can understand and appreciate all it means.”
The butler, an excellently trained servant, went
about his work with quiet efficiency, and once Harley
heard him mutter rapid instructions to the surly
parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully in the back-
ground. When again host and guest found them-
selves alone: “I don't in any way distrust the ser-
vants,” explained Sir Charles, “but one cannot hope
to prevent gossip.” He raised his serviette to his
lips and almost immediately resumed: “I was about
to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter's "
He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily
pouring out a glass of water, he drank a sip or two
and Paul Harley noticed that his hand was shaking
nervously. He thought of the photograph in the
library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished


26
FIRE-TONGUE
Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possi-
ble drift of the conversation.
This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently
experienced such difficulty in coming. It was some-
thing which concerned his daughter; and, mentally
visualizing the pure oval face and taunting eyes of
the library photograph, Harley found it impossible
to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles
could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis
Abingdon.
Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must
be held responsible for his present condition, then
truly it was a dreadful one. No longer able to con-
ceal his concern, Harley stood up. “If the story
distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles,” he said, “I
beg-
Sir Charles waved his hand reassuringly. “
mere nothing. It will pass,” he whispered.
“But I fear," continued Harley, "that-
He ceased abruptly, and ran to his host's assist-
ance, for the latter, evidently enough, was in the
throes of some sudden illness or seizure. His fresh-
coloured face was growing positively livid, and he
plucked at the edge of the table with twitching
fingers. As Harley reached his side he made a sud-
den effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp
the other's shoulder.
“Benson!” cried Harley, loudly. “Quick! Your
master is illl”


THE SIXTH SENSE
27
ull,
There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door
was thrown open.
"Too late," whispered Sir Charles in a choking
voice. He began to clutch his throat as Benson
hurried into the room.
“My God!” whispered Harley. “He is dying!”
Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir
Charles Abingdon was almost past speech. He was
glaring across the table as though he saw some
ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling
suddenness he became as a dead weight in Harley's
supporting grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in agony
from his lips:
"Fire-Tongue,” he said . . . “Nicol
Brinn". ...
Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.
“Sir Charles!” he kept muttering. “Sir Charles!
What is the matter, sir?”
A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in
tottered Mrs. Howett, the old housekeeper, with
Other servants peering over her shoulder into that
warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles Abinga
don lay huddled in his own chair-dead.


CHAPTER III
SHADOWS
I TAD you reason to suspect any cardiac trou-
ble, Doctor McMurdoch?” asked Harley.
- Doctor McMurdoch, a local practitioner
who had been a friend of Sir Charles Abingdon,
shook his head slowly. He was a tall, preternat-
urally thin Scotsman, clean-shaven, with shaggy
dark brows and a most gloomy expression in his
deep-set eyes. While the presence of his sepul-
chral figure seemed appropriate enough in that
stricken house, Harley could not help thinking that
it must have been far from reassuring in a sick
room.
“I had never actually detected anything of the
kind,” replied the physician, and his deep voice
was gloomily in keeping with his personality. “I
had observed a certain breathlessness at times,
however. No doubt it is one of those cases of un-
suspected endocarditis. Acute. I take it," raising
his shaggy brows interrogatively, "that nothing
had occurred to excite Sir Charles?”
“On the contrary,” replied Harley, “he was
highly distressed about some family trouble, the
28


SHADOWS
29
nature of which he was about to confide to me when
this sudden illness seized him."
He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch, wondering
how much he might hope to learn from him respect-
ing the affairs of Sir Charles. It seemed almost
impertinent at that hour to seek to pry into the
dead man's private life.
To the quiet, book-lined apartment stole now and
again little significant sounds which told of the
tragedy in the household. Sometimes when a dis-
tant door was opened, it would be the sobs of a
weeping woman, for the poor old housekeeper had
been quite prostrated by the blow. Or ghostly
movements would become audible from the room
immediately over the library—the room to which
the dead man had been carried; muffled foot.
steps, vague stirrings of furniture; each sound
laden with its own peculiar portent, awakening the
imagination which all too readily filled in the details
of the scene above. Then, to spur Harley to action,
came the thought that Sir Charles Abingdon had
appealed to him for aid. Did his need terminate
with his unexpected death or would the shadow
under which he had died extend now
Harley found himself staring across the library
at the photograph of Phil Abingdon. It was of her
that Sir Charles had been speaking when that
mysterious seizure had tied his tongue. That
strange, fatal illness, mused Harley, all the more


130
FIRE-TONGUE
IS
strange in the case of a man supposedly in robust
health-it almost seemed like the working of a
malignant will. For the revelation, whatever its
nature, had almost but not quite been made in
Harley's office that evening. Something, some
embarrassment or mental disability, had stopped
Sir Charles from completing his statement. To-
night death had stopped him.
"Was he consulting you professionally, Mr.
Harley?" asked the physician.
“He was," replied Harley, continuing to stare
fascinatedly at the photograph on the mantelpiece.
“I am informed,” said he, abruptly, “that Miss
Abingdon is out of town?”
Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy
fashion. “She is staying in Devonshire with poor
Abingdon's sister,” he answered. “I am wondering
how we are going to break the news to her.”
Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly
been intimate with the late Sir Charles, Harley
determined to make use of this opportunity to en-
deavour to fathom the mystery of the late surgeon's
fears. “You will not misunderstand me, Doctor
McMurdoch,” he said, “if I venture to ask you one
or two rather personal questions respecting Miss
Abingdon?"
Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and
looked gloomily at the speaker. “Mr. Harley,"
he replied, “I know you by repute for a man of


SHADOWS
31
integrity. But before I answer your questions will
you answer one of mine?”
“Certainly.”
“Then my question is this: Does not your
interest cease with the death of your client?”
"Doctor McMurdoch,” said Harley, sternly, "you
no doubt believe yourself to be acting as a friend of
this bereaved family. You regard me, perhaps,
as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity. On the
contrary, I find myself in a delicate and embarrassing
situation. From Sir Charles's conversation I had
gathered that he entertained certain fears on behalf
of his daughter."
“Indeed,” said Doctor McMurdoch.
“If these fears were well grounded, the danger is
not removed, but merely increased by the death of
Miss Abingdon's natural protector. I regret, sir,
that I approached you for information, since you
have misjudged my motive. But far from my interest
having ceased, it has now as I see the matter become
a sacred duty to learn what it was that Sir Charles
apprehended. This duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I
propose to fulfil with or without your assistance."
“Oh,” said Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, “I'm
afraid I've offended you. But I meant well, Mr.
Harley.” A faint trace of human emotion showed
itself in his deep voice. “Charley Abingdon and
I were students together in Edinburgh,” he explained.
"I was mayhap a little strange."


32
FIRE-TONGUE
His apology was so evidently sincere that Harley
relented at once. “Please say no more, Doctor
McMurdoch,” he responded. “I fully appreciate
your feelings in the matter. At such a time a
stranger can only be an intruder; but”-he fixed
his keen eyes upon the physician-"there is more
underlying all this than you suspect or could read-
ily believe. You will live to know that I have spoken
the truth.”
“I know it now,” declared the Scotsman, sol-
emnly. “Abingdon was always eccentric, but he
didn't know the meaning of fear.”
“Once that may have been true," replied Harley.
“But a great fear was upon him when he came to
me, Doctor McMurdoch, and if it is humanly pos-
sible I am going to discover its cause."
“Go ahead,” said Doctor McMurdoch and, turning
to the side table, he poured out two liberal portions
of whiskey. “If there's anything I can do to help,
count me at your service. You tell me he had fears
about little Phil?”
"He had,” answered Harley, “and it is maddening
to think that he died before he could acquaint me
with their nature. But I have hopes that you can
help me in this. For instance”-again he fixed
his gaze upon the gloomy face of the physician-
“who is the distinguished Oriental gentleman with
whom Sir Charles had recently become acquainted?”
Doctor McMurdoch's expression remained utterly


34
FIRE-TONGUE
third question to the gloomy Scot. “Was Sir
Charles a friend of Mr. Nicol Brinn?” he asked.
“Nicol Brinn?" echoed the physician. He looked
perplexed. “You mean the American millionaire?
I believe they were acquainted. Abingdon knew
most of the extraordinary people in London; and
if half one hears is true Nicol Brinn is as mad as a
hatter. But they were not in any sense friends as
far as I know." He was watching Harley curiously.
“Why do you ask that question?”
: "I will tell you in a moment,” said Harley, rapidly,
“but I have one more question to put to you first,
Does the term Fire-Tongue convey anything to
your mind ?”
Doctor McMurdoch's eyebrows shot upward most
amazingly. “I won't insult you by supposing that
you have chosen such a time for joking,” he said,
dourly. “But if your third question surprised me,
I must say that your fourth sounds simply daft.”
"It must,” agreed Harley, and his manner was
almost fierce; "but when I tell you why I ask these
two questions—and I only do so on the understand-
ing that my words are to be treated in the strictest
confidence--you may regard the matter in a new
light. 'Nicol Brinn' and 'Fire-Tongue' were the
last words which Sir Charles Abingdon uttered.”
“What!” cried Doctor McMurdoch, displaying a
sudden surprising energy. “What?”.
“I solemnly assure you," declared Harley, “that


SHADOWS
35
such is the case. Benson, the butler, also overheard
them.”
Doctor McMurdoch relapsed once more into gloom,
gazing at the whiskey in the glass which he held in
his hand and slowly shaking his head. “Poor old
Charley Abingdon,” he murmured. “It's plain
to me, Mr. Harley, that his mind was wandering.
May not we find here an explanation, too, of this
idea of his that some danger overhung Phil? You
didn't chance to notice, I suppose, whether he had
a temperature?”
"I did not,” replied Harley, smiling slightly.
But the smile quickly left his face, which became
again grim and stern.
A short silence ensued, during which Doctor Mc-
Murdoch sat staring moodily down at the carpet and
Harley slowly paced up and down the room; then:
"In view of the fact,” he said, suddenly, “that Sir
Charles clearly apprehended an attempt upon his
life, are you satisfied professionally that death was
due to natural causes?”
"Perfectly satisfied,” replied the physician, looking
up with a start: “perfectly satisfied. It was un-
expected, of course, but such cases are by no means
unusual. He was formerly a keen athlete, remember. ·
'Tis often so. Surely you don't suspect foul play?
I understood you to mean that his apprehensions
were on behalf of Phil.”
Paul Harley stood still, staring meditatively in


36
FIRE-TONGUE
the other's direction. “There is not a scrap of
evidence to support such a theory,” he admitted,
“but if you knew of the existence of any poisonous
agent which would produce effects simulating these
familiar symptoms, I should be tempted to take
certain steps.”
"If you are talking about poisons," said the
physician, a rather startled look appearing upon
his face, “there are several I might mention; but
the idea seems preposterous to me. Why should
any one want to harm Charley Abingdon? When
could poison have been administered and by
whom?”
“When, indeed ?” murmured Harley. “Yet I
am not satisfied.”
“You're not hinting at-suicide?”
“Emphatically no.”
“What had he eaten?”
“Nothing but soup, except that he drank a portion
of a glass of water. I am wondering if he took
anything at Mr. Wilson's house.” He stared hard
at Doctor McMurdoch. “It may surprise you to
learn that I have already taken steps to have the
remains of the soup from Sir Charles's plate ex-
amined, as well as the water in the glass. I now
propose to call upon Mr. Wilson in order that I
may complete this line of enquiry.”
"I sympathize with your suspicions, Mr. Harley,"
said the physician dourly, “but you are wasting


SHADOWS
37
your time.” A touch of the old acidity crept back
into his manner. “My certificate will be 'syncope
due to unusual excitement'; and I shall stand by it."
“You are quite entitled to your own opinion,"
Harley conceded, “which if I were in your place
would be my own. But what do you make of the
fact that Sir Charles received a bogus telephone
message some ten minutes before my arrival, as a
result of which he visited Mr. Wilson's house?”
“But he's attending Wilson,” protested the
physician.
"Nevertheless, no one there had telephoned.
It was a ruse. I don't assume for a moment that this
ruse was purposeless.”
Doctor McMurdoch was now staring hard at the
speaker.
“You may also know,” Harley continued, “that
there was an attempted burglary here less than a
arley continued
week ago, an attempted b
"I know that,” admitted the other, “but it counts
for little. There have been several burglaries in the
neighbourhood of late.”
Harley perceived that Doctor McMurdoch was one
of those characters, not uncommon north of the
Tweed, who, if slow in forming an opinion, once
having done so cling to it as tightly as any barnacle.
“You may be right and I may be wrong,” Harley
admitted, “but while your professional business
with Sir Charles unfortunately is ended, mine is


38
FIRE-TONGUE
only beginning. May I count upon you to advise
me of Miss Abingdon's return? I particularly wish
to see her, and I should prefer to meet her in the
capacity of a friend rather than in that of a pro-
fessional investigator.”
“At the earliest moment that I can decently
arrange a meeting,” replied Doctor McMurdoch, “I
will communicate with you, Mr. Harley. I am just
cudgelling my brains at the moment to think how the
news is to be broken to her. Poor little Phil! He
was all she had.”
"I wish I could help you,” declared Harley with
sincerity, “but in the circumstances any suggestion
of mine would be mere impertinence.” He held
out his hand to the doctor.
“Good-night,” said the latter, gripping it heartily.
“If there is any mystery surrounding poor Abing-
don's death, I believe you are the man to clear it
up. But, frankly, it was his heart. I believe he
had a touch of the sun once in India. Who knows?
His idea that some danger threatened him or threat-
ened Phil may have been merely- " He tapped
his brow significantly.
“But in the whole of your knowledge of Sir
Charles,” cried Harley, exhibiting a certain irrita-
tion, “have you ever known him to suffer from de-
lusions of that kind or any other?”.
"Never," replied the physician, firmly; “but once
a man has had the sun one cannot tell."


SHADOWS
39
“Ah!” said Harley. “Good-night, Doctor Mc-
Murdoch."
When presently he left the house, carrying a brown
leather bag which he had borrowed from the butler,
he knew that rightly or wrongly his own opinion
remained unchanged in spite of the stubborn opposi-
tion of the Scottish physician. The bogus message
remained to be explained, and the assault in the
square, as did the purpose of the burglar to whom
gold and silver plate made no appeal. More im-
portant even than these points were the dead man's
extraordinary words:"Fire-Tongue”-“Nicol Brinn.”
Finally and conclusively, he had detected the note
of danger outside and inside the house; and now
as he began to cross the square it touched him
again intimately.
He looked up at the darkened sky. A black cloud
was moving slowly overhead, high above the roof
of the late Sir Charles Abingdon; and as he watched
its stealthy approach it seemed to Paul Harley to
be the symbol of that dread in which latterly Sir
Charles's life had lain, beneath which he had died,
and which now was stretching out, mysterious and
menacing, over himself.


CHAPTER IV
INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN
T ABOUT nine o'clock on the same evening,
a man stood at a large window which over.
looked Piccadilly and the Green Park.
The room to which the window belonged was justly
considered one of the notable sights of London and
doubtless would have received suitable mention in
the “Blue Guide” had the room been accessible to
the general public. It was, on the contrary, accessi-
ble only to the personal friends of Mr. Nicol Brinn.
As Mr. Nicol Brinn had a rarely critical taste in
friendship, none but a fortunate few had seen the
long room with its two large windows overlooking
Piccadilly.
The man at the window was interested in a car
which, approaching from the direction of the Circus,
had slowed down immediately opposite and now
was being turned, the chauffeur's apparent intention
being to pull up at the door below. He had seen the
face of the occupant and had recognized it even from
that elevation. He was interested; and since only
unusual things aroused any semblance of interest
in the man who now stood at the window, one might
40


INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN 41
have surmised that there was something unusual
about the present visitor, or in his having decided
to call at those chambers; and that such was indeed
his purpose an upward glance which he cast in the
direction of the balcony sufficiently proved.
The watcher, who had been standing in a dark
recess formed by the presence of heavy velvet cur-
tains draped before the window, now opened the
curtains and stepped into the lighted room. He
was a tall, lean man having straight, jet-black hair,
a sallow complexion, and the features of a Sioux.
A long black cigar protruded aggressively from the
left corner of his mouth. His hands were locked
behind him and his large and quite expressionless
blue eyes stared straight across the room at the
closed door with a dreamy and vacant regard.
His dinner jacket fitted him so tightly that it might
have been expected at any moment to split at the
seams. As if to precipitate the catastrophe, he wore
it buttoned.
There came a rap at the door.
"In!” said the tall man.
The door opened silently and a manservant ap-
peared. He was spotlessly neat and wore his light
hair cropped close to the skull. His fresh-coloured
face was quite as expressionless as that of his master;
his glance possessed no meaning. Crossing to the
window, he extended a small salver upon which lay
a visiting card.


42
FIRE-TONGUE
“In!” repeated the tall man, looking down at the
card.
His servant silently retired, and following a short
interval rapped again upon the door, opened it, and
standing just inside the room announced: “Mr.
Paul Harley."
The door being quietly closed behind him, Paul
Harley stood staring across the room at Nicol Brinn.
At this moment the contrast between the types
was one to have fascinated a psychologist. About
Paul Harley, eagerly alert, there was something
essentially British. Nicol Brinn, without being
typical, was nevertheless distinctly a product of the
United States. Yet, despite the stoic mask worn
by Mr. Brinn, whose lack-lustre eyes were so unlike
the bright gray eyes of his visitor, there existed,
if not a physical, a certain spiritual affinity between
the two; both were men of action.
Harley, after that one comprehensive glance, the
photographic glance of a trained observer, stepped
forward impulsively, hand outstretched. “Mr.
Brinn,” he said, "we have never met before, and it
was good of you to wait in for me. I hope my tele-
phone message has not interfered with your plans
for the evening?”
Nicol Brinn, without change of pose, no line of the
impassive face altering, shot out a large, muscular
hand, seized that of Paul Harley in a tremendous
grip, and almost instantly put his hand behind his


INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN 43
back again. “Had no plans," he replied, in a high,
monotonous voice; "I was bored stiff. Take the
armchair.”
Paul Harley sat down, but in the restless manner
of one who has urgent business in hand and who is
impatient of delay. Mr. Brinn stooped to a coffee
table which stood upon the rug before the large open
fireplace. "I am going to offer you a cocktail,”
he said.
"I shall accept your offer,” returned Harley,
smiling. “The 'N. B. cocktail has a reputation
which extends throughout the clubs of the world.”
Nicol Brinn, exhibiting the swift adroitness of
that human dodo, the New York bartender, mixed
the drinks. Paul Harley watched him, meanwhile
drumming his fingers restlessly upon the chair arm.
“Here's success," he said, "to my mission.”
It was an odd toast, but Mr. Brinn merely nodded
and drank in silence. Paul Harley set his glass down
and glanced about the singular apartment of which
he had often heard and which no man could ever
tire of examining.
In this room the poles met, and the most remote
civilizations of the world rubbed shoulders with
modernity. Here, encased, were a family of snow-
white ermine from Alaska and a pair of black Man-
churian leopards. A flying lemur from the Pelews
contemplated swooping upon the head of a huge
tigress which glared with glassy eyes across the place


44
FIRE-TONGUE
.
at the snarling muzzle of a polar bear. Mycenaan
vases and gold death masks stood upon the same
shelf as Venetian goblets, and the mummy of an
Egyptian priestess of the thirteenth dynasty occupied
a sarcophagus upon the top of which rested a bas-
relief found in one of the shrines of the Syrian fish
goddess Derceto, at Ascalon.
Arrowheads of the Stone Age and mediæval rapiers
were ranged alongside some of the latest examples
of the gunsmith's art. There were elephants' tusks
and Mexican skulls; a stone jar of water from the
well of Zem-Zem, and an ivory crucifix which had
belonged to Torquemada. A mat of human hair
from Borneo overlay a historical and unique rug
woven in Ispahan and entirely composed of frag-
ments of Holy Carpets from the Kaaba at Mecca.
"I take it," said Mr. Brinn, suddenly, “that you
are up against a stiff proposition.”
Paul Harley, accepting a cigarette from an ebony
box (once the property of Henry VIII) which the
speaker had pushed across the coffee table in his
direction, stared up curiously into the sallow,
aquiline face. “You are right. But how did you
know?"
“You look that way. Also-you were followed.
Somebody knows you've come here.”
Harley leaned forward, resting one hand upon the
table. “I know I was followed,” he said, sternly.
“I was followed because I have entered upon the


INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN 45
biggest case of my career.” He paused and smiled
in a very grim fashion. “A suspicion begins to dawn
upon my mind that if I fail it will also be my last
case. You understand me?”
"I understand absolutely,' replied Nicol Brinn.
“These are dull days. It's meat and drink to me to
smell big danger.”
Paul Harley lighted a cigarette and watched the
speaker closely the while. His expression, as he did
so, was an odd one. Two courses were open to him,
and he was mentally debating their respective ad-
vantages.
“I have come to you to-night, Mr. Brinn," he
said finally, “to ask you a certain question. Unless
the theory upon which I am working is entirely wrong,
then, supposing that you are in a position to answer
my question I am logically compelled to suppose,
also, that you stand in peril of your life.”
“Good,” said Mr. Brinn. “I was getting sluge
gish.” In three long strides he crossed the room
and locked the door. “I don't doubt Hoskins's
honesty,” he explained, reading the inquiry in Har-
ley's eyes, “but an Ar intelligence doesn't fold dress
pants at thirty-nine.”
Only one very intimate with the taciturn speaker
could have perceived any evidence of interest in that
imperturbable character. But Nicol Brinn took
his cheroot between his fingers, quickly placed a
cone of ash in a little silver tray (the work of Benven-


46
FIRE-TONGUE
uto Cellini), and replaced the cheroot not in the left
but in the right corner of his mouth. He was
excited.
“You are out after one of the big heads of the
crook world,” he said. “He knows it and he's
trailing you. My luck's turned. How can I help?”
Harley stood up, facing Mr. Brinn. “He knows
it, as you say,” he replied, “and I hold my life in my
hands. But from your answer to the question which
I have come here to-night to ask you, I shall conclude
whether or not your danger at the moment is greater
than mine."
“Good," said Nicol Brinn.
In that unique room, at once library and museum,
amid relics of a hundred ages, spoil of the chase,
the excavator, and the scholar, these two faced each
other; and despite the peaceful quiet of the apart-
ment up to which as a soothing murmur stole the
homely sounds of Piccadilly, each saw in the other's
eyes recognition of a deadly peril. It was a queer,
memorable moment.
"My question is simple but strange,” said Paul
Harley. “It is this: What do you know of 'Fire-
Tongue'?"


CHAPTER V
"THE GATES OF Hell”
IF PAUL HARLEY had counted upon the word
"Fire-Tongue” to have a dramatic effect upon
1 Nicol Brinn, he was not disappointed. It was
a word which must have conveyed little or nothing
to the multitude and which might have been pro-
nounced without perceptible effect at any public
meeting in the land. But Mr. Brinn, impassive
though his expression remained, could not conceal
the emotion which he experienced at the sound of its
His gaunt face seemed to grow more angular and his
eyes to become even less lustrous.
“Fire-Tongue!” he said, tensely, following a short
silence. “For God's sake, when did you hear that
word?”
“I heard it,” replied Harley, slowly, "to-night."
He fixed his gaze intently upon the sallow face of the
American. “It was spoken by Sir Charles Abing-
don.”
Closely as he watched Nicol Brinn while pronounce
ing this name he could not detect the slightest
change of expression in the stoic features.
47


48
FIRE-TONGUE
“Sir Charles Abingdon," echoed Brinn; "and in
what way is it connected with your case?”
“In this way,” answered Harley. “It was spoken
by Sir Charles a few moments before he died.”
Nicol Brinn's drooping lids flickered rapidly.
“Before he died! Then Sir Charles Abingdon is
dead! When did he die?"
"He died to-night and the last words that he ut-
tered were 'Fire-Tongue'- " He paused, never
for a moment removing that fixed gaze from the
other's face.
“Go on,” prompted Mr. Brinn.
“And 'Nicol Brinn.""
Nicol Brinn stood still as a carven man. In-
deed, only by an added rigidity in his pose did he
reward Paul Harley's intense scrutiny. A silence
charged with drama was finally broken by the Amer-
ican. “Mr. Harley,” he said, “you told me that
you were up against the big proposition of your ca-
reer. You are right.”
With that he sat down in an armchair and, resting
his chin in his hand, gazed fixedly into the empty
grate. His pose was that of a man who is suddenly
called upon to review the course of his life and upon
whose decision respecting the future that life may de-
pend. Paul Harley watched him in silence.
“Give me the whole story," said Mr. Brinn, "right
from the beginning.” He looked up. “Do you
know what you have done to-night, Mr. Harley?”


“THE GATES OF HELL”
49
Paul Harley shook his head. Swiftly, like the
touch of an icy finger, that warning note of danger
had reached him again.
"I'll tell you," continued Brinn. “You have
opened the gates of hell!”
Not another word did he speak while Paul Harley,
pacing slowly up and down before the hearth, gave
him a plain account of the case, omitting all refer-
ence to his personal suspicions and to the measures
which he had taken to confirm them.
He laid his cards upon the table deliberately.
Whether Sir Charles Abingdon had uttered the name
of Nicol Brinn as that of one whose aid should be
sought or as a warning, he had yet to learn. And by
this apparent frankness he hoped to achieve his ob-
ject. That the celebrated American was in any
way concerned in the menace which had overhung
Sir Charles he was not prepared to believe. But he
awaited with curiosity that explanation which Nicol
Brinn must feel called upon to offer.
“You think he was murdered?” said Brinn in his
high, toneless voice.
“I have formed no definite opinion. What is your
own?”
“I may not look it,” replied Brinn, "but at this
present moment I am the most hopelessly puzzled and
badly frightened man in London.”
“Frightened?” asked Harley, curiously.
“I said frightened, I also said puzzled; and I am far
awaited Wit feel called murdered?


FIRE-TONGUE
too puzzled to be able to express any opinion respecte
ing the death of Sir Charles Abingdon. When I teli
you all I know of him you will wonder as much as
I do, Mr. Harley, why my name should have been
the last to pass his lips.”
He half turned in the big chair to face his visitor,
who now was standing before the fireplace staring
down at him.
“One day last month," he resumed, “I got out of
my car in a big hurry at the top of the Haymarket.
A fool on a motorcycle passed between the car and
the sidewalk just as I stepped down, and I knew noth-
ing further until I woke up in a drug store close by,
feeling very dazed and with my coat in tatters and
my left arm numbed from the elbow. A man was
standing watching me, and presently when I had
pulled round he gave me his card.
"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
10 Card.


“THE GATES OF HELL”
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 luxuri-
ous 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 per-
ceptible 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."


52
FIRE-TONGUE
“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 Abing-
don now hung threateningly over those very cham-
bers, 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 exa
perience?”
"Mr. Harley,” replied Brinn, suddenly standing
up, “I can't.”
“You can't?"


“THE GATES OF HELL”. 53
“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 evi-
dence. 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 di-
vulge in a court of justice the facts which you refuse
to divulge to me.”
"I know it,” said Brinn, shortly.
He shot out one long arm and grasped Harley's
shoulder as in a vice. “I'm counted a wealthy man,"
he continued, “but I'd give every cent I possess to
see paid' put to the bill of a certain person. Listen.
You don't think I was in any way concerned in the
death of Sir Charles Abingdon? It isn't thinkable.
But you do think I'm in possession of facts which
would help you find out who is. You're right.”
“Good God!” cried Harley. “Yet you remain
silent!”
"Not so loud-not so loud!” implored Brinn, re-
peating that odd, almost furtive glance around.
“Mr. Harley—you know me. You've heard of me
and now you've met me. You know my place in
the world. Do you believe me when I say that from
this moment onward I don't trust my own servants?


54
FIRE-TONGUE
Nor my own friends?" He removed his grip from
Harley's shoulder. “Inanimate things look like
enemies. That mummy over yonder may have
ears!”
“I'm afraid I don't altogether understand you.”
“See here!”
Nicol Brinn crossed to a bureau, unlocked it, and
while Harley watched him curiously, sought among a
number of press cuttings. Presently he found the
cutting for which he was looking. “This was
said,” he explained, handing the slip to Harley, “at
the Players' Club in New York, after a big dinner
in pre-dry days. It was said in confidence. But
some disguised reporter had got in and it came out
in print next morning. Read it.”
Paul Harley accepted the cutting and read the
following:
NICOL BRINN'S SECRET AMBITIONS
MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN WHO WANTS TO SHOOT
NIAGARA!
Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati, who is at present in
New York, opened his heart to members of the Players'
Club last night. Our prominent citizen, responding to a
toast, “the distinguished visitor," said:
"I'd like to live through months of midnight frozen
in among the polar ice; I'd like to cross Africa from east
to west and get lost in the middle. I'd like to have a
Montana sheriff's posse on my heels for horse stealing,
and I've prayed to be wrecked on a desert island like


“THE GATES OF HELL”
55
stand my timound by the eunuls and scale the
Robinson Crusoe to see if I am man enough to live it out.
I want to stand my trial for murder and defend my own
case, and I want to be found by the eunuchs in the harêm
of the Shah. I want to dive for pearls and scale the
Matterhorn. I want to know where the tunnel leads to
-the tunnel down under the Great Pyramid of Gizeh
and I'd love to shoot Niagara Falls in a barrel.”
“It sounds characteristic," murmured Harley,
laying the slip on the coffee table.
“It's true!” declared Brinn. “I said it and I
meant it. I'm a glutton for danger, Mr. Harley,
and I'm going to tell you why. Something happened
to me seven years ago "
“In India ?”
“In India. Correct. Something happened to
me, sir, which just took the sunshine out of life. At
the time I didn't know all it meant. I've learned
since. For seven years I have been flirting with
death and hoping to fall!”
Harley stared at him uncomprehendingly. “More
than ever I fail to understand.”
“I can only ask you to be patient, Mr. Harley.
Time is a wonderful doctor, and I don't say that in
seven years the old wound hasn't healed a bit. But
to-night you have, unknowingly, undone all that
time had done. I'm a man that has been down into
hell. I bought myself out. I thought I knew where
the pit was located. I thought I was well away from
it, Mr. Harley, and you have told me something to-


56
FIRE-TONGUE
night which makes me think that it isn't where I
supposed at all, but hidden down here right under
our feet in London. And we're both standing on the
edge!”
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 al-
most fiercely into the other's dull eyes. “My repu-
tation 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


“THE GATES OF HELL”
57
nsk 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


58
FIRE-TONGUE
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 window-
pane-once-twice. There followed a faint, sibilant
sound.
Paul Harley started and the stocial 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
N 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, gloom-
ily. “Merton reports that there is no trace of any
dangerous foreign body in the liquids analyzed.”
He dropped the analyst's report into a waste-
basket and resumed his restless promenade. Innes,
who could see that his principal wanted to talk,
waited. For it was Paul Harley's custom, when the
clue to a labyrinth evaded him, to outline his diffi-
culties to his confidential secretary, and by the mere
exercise of verbal construction Harley would often
detect the weak spot in his reasoning. This stage
come to, he would dictate a carefully worded state-
ment of the case to date and thus familiarize himself
with its complexities.
“You see, Innes,” he began, suddenly, “Sir Charles
had taken no refreshment of any kind at Mr. Wil-


FIRE-TONGUE
se
son's house nor before leaving his own. Neither
had he smoked. No one had approached him.
Therefore, if he was poisoned, he was poisoned at his
own table. Since he was never out of my observa-
tion from the moment of entering the library up to
that of his death, we are reduced to the only two possi-
ble mediums—the soup or the water. He had
touched nothing else."
“No wine?”
“Wine was on the table but none had been poured
out. Let us see what evidence, capable of being
put into writing, exists to support my theory that
Sir Charles was poisoned. In the first place, he
clearly went in fear of some such death. It was be-
cause of this that he consulted me. What was the
origin of his fear? Something associated with the
term Fire-Tongue. So much is clear from Sir
Charles's dying words, and his questioning Nicol
Brinn on the point some weeks earlier.
“He was afraid, then, of something or someone
linked in his mind with the word Fire-Tongue. What
do we know about Fire-Tongue? One thing only:
that it had to do with some episode which took place
in India. This item we owe to Nicol Brinn.
“Very well. Sir Charles believed himself to be
in danger from some thing or person unknown, asso-
ciated with India and with the term Fire-Tongue.
What else? His house was entered during the night
under circumstances suggesting that burglary was


PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES 61
not the object of the entrance. And next? He was
assaulted, with murderous intent. Thirdly, he be-
lieved himself to be subjected to constant surveil-
lance. Was this a delusion? It was not. After
failing several times I myself detected someone
dogging my movements last night at the moment
I entered Nicol Brinn's chambers. Nicol Brinn also
saw this person.
“In short, Sir Charles was, beyond doubt, at
the time of his death, receiving close attention from
some mysterious person or persons the object of
which he believed to be his death. Have I gone
beyond established facts, Innes, thus far?”
“No, Mr. Harley. So far you are on solid
ground.”
“Good. Leaving out of the question those
points which we hope to clear up when the evidence of
Miss Abingdon becomes available-how did Sir
Charles learn that Nicol Brinn knew the meaning of
Fire-Tongue?”
“He may have heard something to that effect in
India.”
"If this were so he would scarcely have awaited a
chance encounter to prosecute his inquiries, since
Nicol Brinn is a well-known figure in London and Sir
Charles had been home for several years.”
“Mr. Brinn may have said something after the
accident and before he was in full possession of his
senses which gave Sir Charles a clue."
Suc!


62
FIRE-TONGUE
“He did not, Innes. I called at the druggist's
establishment this morning. They recalled the in-
cident, of course. Mr. Brinn never uttered a word
until, opening his eyes, he said: 'Hello! Am I
much damaged?'”
Innes smiled discreetly. “A remarkable charac-
ter, Mr. Harley,” he said. “Your biggest diffi-
culty at the moment is to fit Mr. Nicol Brinn into
the scheme."
“He won't fit at all, Innes! We come to the final
and conclusive item of evidence substantiating my
theory of Sir Charles's murder: Nicol Brinn believes
he was murdered. Nicol Brinn has known others,
in his own words, 'to go the same way. Yet Nicol
Brinn, a millionaire, a scholar, a sportsman, and a
gentleman, refuses to open his mouth.”
"He is afraid of something."
"He is afraid of Fire-Tongue-whatever Fire-
Tongue may be! I never saw a man of proved
courage more afraid in my life. He prefers to
court arrest for complicity in a murder rather than
tell what he knows!”
“It's unbelievable.”
“It would be, Innes, if Nicol Brinn's fears were
personal.”
Paul Harley checked his steps in front of the
watchful secretary and gazed keenly into his eyes.
“Death has no terrors for Nicol Brinn,” he said,
slowly. “All his life he has toyed with danger. He


PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES 63
admitted to me that during the past seven years he
had courted death. Isn't it plain enough, Innes?
If ever a man possessed all that the world had to
offer, Nicol Brinn is that man. In such a case and
in such circumstances what do we look for?”
Innes shook his head.
“We look for the woman!” snapped Paul Harley.
There came a rap at the door and Miss Smith,
the typist, entered. “Miss Phil Abingdon and
Doctor McMurdoch,” she said.
“Good heavens!” muttered Harley. “So soon?
Why, she can only just- " He checked himself.
“Show them in, Miss Smith,” he directed.
As the typist went out, followed by Innes, Paul
Harley found himself thinking of the photograph in
Sir Charles Abingdon's library and waiting with an
almost feverish expectancy for the appearance of the
original.
Almost immediately Phil Abingdon came in, ac-
companied by the sepulchral Doctor McMurdoch,
And Harley found himself wondering whether her
eyes were really violet-coloured or whether intense
emotion heroically repressed had temporarily lent
them that appearance.
Surprise was the predominant quality of his first
impression. Sir Charles Abingdon's daughter was:
so exceedingly vital-petite and slender, yet instinct
with force. The seeming repose of the photograph
was misleading. That her glance could be naïve


PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES 65
It was really quite brief-that interval of silence
although perhaps long enough to bridge the ages.
"How brave of you, Miss Abingdon!” said Har.
ley. “How wonderfully brave of you!”
"She's an Abingdon,” came the deep tones of
Doctor McMurdoch. “She arrived only two hours
ago and here she is.”
“There can be no rest for me, Doctor," said the
girl, and strove valiantly to control her voice, “until
this dreadful doubt is removed. Mr. Harley”-
she turned to him appealingly—“please don't study
my feelings in the least; I can bear anything-now;
just tell me what happened. Oh! I had to come.
I felt that I had to come.”
As Paul Harley placed an armchair for his visitor,
his glance met that of Doctor McMurdoch, and in the
gloomy eyes he read admiration of this girl who
could thus conquer the inherent weakness of her
sex and at such an hour and after a dreadful ordeal
set her hand to the task which fate had laid upon
her.
Doctor McMurdoch sat down on a chair beside
the door, setting his silk hat upon the floor and clasp-
ing his massive chin with his hand.
"I will endeavour to do as you wish, Miss Abing-
don,” said Harley, glancing anxiously at the phy-
sician.
But Doctor McMurdoch returned only a dull
stare. It was evident that this man of stone was as


66
FIRE-TONGUE
clay in the hands of Phil Abingdon. He deprecated
the strain which she was imposing upon her nervous
system, already overwrought to the danger point,
but he was helpless for all his dour obstinacy. Har.
ley, looking down at the girl's profile, read a new
meaning into the firm line of her chin. He was
conscious of an insane desire to put his arms around
this new acquaintance who seemed in some inde-
finable yet definite way to belong to him and to
whisper the tragic story he had to tell, comforting
her the while.
He began to relate what had taken place at the
first interview, when Sir Charles had told him of the
menace which he had believed to hang over his life.
He spoke slowly, deliberately, choosing his words
with a view to sparing Phil Abingdon's feelings as far
as possible.
She made no comment throughout, but her
fingers alternately tightened and relaxed their hold
upon the arms of the chair in which she was seated.'
Once, at some reference to words spoken by her
father, her sensitive lips began to quiver and Harley,
watching her, paused. She held the chair arms more
tightly. “Please go on, Mr. Harley,” she said.
The words were spoken in a very low voice, but the
speaker looked up bravely, and Harley, reassured,
proceeded uninterruptedly to the end of the story.
Then:
"At some future time, Miss Abingdon,” he con-


PHIL ABINGDON ARRIVES
1 67
cluded, “I hope you will allow me to call upon you.
There is so much to be discussed— "
Again Phil Abingdon looked up into his face.
“I have forced myself to come to see you to-day,"
she said, “because I realize there is no service I can
do poor dad so important as finding out- "
"I understand,” Harley interrupted, gently.
“But- "
“No, no.” Phil Abingdon shook her head rebel-
liously. “Please ask me what you want to know.
I came for that.”
He met the glance of violet eyes, and understood
something of Doctor McMurdoch's helplessness,
He found his thoughts again wandering into strange,
wild byways and was only recalled to the realities
by the dry, gloomy voice of the physician. “Go
on, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor McMurdoch. “She
has grand courage.”


CHAPTER VII
CONFESSIONS
AUL HARLEY crossed the room and stood
in front of the tall Burmese cabinet. He
I experienced the utmost difficulty in adopting
a judicial attitude toward his beautiful visitor.
Proximity increased his mental confusion. There-
fore he stood on the opposite side of the office ere
beginning to question her.
“In the first place, Miss Abingdon,” he said, speak-
ing very deliberately, “do you attach any particu-
lar significance to the term 'Fire-Tongue'?"
Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor McMur-
doch. “None at all, Mr. Harley,” she replied.
“The doctor has already told me of
“You know why I ask?” She inclined her head.
“And Mr. Nicol Brinn? Have you met this gen-
tleman?"
"Never. I know that Dad had met him and was
very much interested in him.”
“In what way?”
"I have no idea. He told me that he thought Mr.
Brinn one of the most singular characters he had
ever known. But beyond describing his rooms
68


CONFESSIONS
69
in Piccadilly, which had impressed him as extraor-
dinary, he said very little about Mr. Brinn. He
sounded interesting and”—she hesitated and her
eyes filled with tears—“I asked Dad to invite him
home.” Again she paused. This retrospection,
by making the dead seem to live again, added to the
horror of her sudden bereavement, and Harley
would most gladly have spared her more. “Dad
seemed strangely disinclined to do so," she added.
At that the keen investigator came to life within
Harley. “Your father did not appear anxious to
bring Mr. Brinn to his home?” he asked, eagerly.
"Not at all anxious. This was all the more strange
because Dad invited Mr. Brinn to his club."
“He gave no reason for his refusal?”
“Oh, there was no refusal, Mr. Harley. He merely
evaded the matter. I never knew why."
“H'm," muttered Harley. “And now, Miss
Abingdon, can you enlighten me respecting the
identity of the Oriental gentleman with whom he
had latterly become acquainted ?”
Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly at Doctor Mc-
Murdoch and then lowered her head. She did not
answer at once. “I know to whom you refer, Mr.
Harley," she said, finally. “But it was I who had
made this gentleman's acquaintance. My father
did not know him.”
“Then I wonder why he mentioned him?" mur.
mured Harley.


70
FIRE-TONGUE
“That I cannot imagine. I have been wondering
ever since Doctor McMurdoch told me.”
“You recognize the person to whom Sir Charles
referred?”
“Yes. He could only have meant Ormûz Khân."
“Ormûz Khân- " echoed Harley. “Where have
I heard that name?”
“He visits England periodically, I believe. In
fact, he has a house somewhere near London. I
met him at Lady Vail's.”
"Lady Vail's? His excellency moves, then, in
diplomatic circles? Odd that I cannot place
him."
“I have a vague idea, Mr. Harley, that he is a
financier. I seem to have heard that he had some-
thing to do with the Imperial Bank of Iran.” She
glanced naïvely at Harley. “Is there such a bank?”
she asked.
“There is," he replied. “Am I to understand that
Ormũz Khân is a Persian?”.
“I believe he is a Persian," said Phil Abingdon,
rather confusedly. “To be quite frank, I know very
little about him.”
Paul Harley gazed steadily at the speaker for a
moment. “Can you think of any reason why Sir
Charles should have worried about this gentleman?”
he asked.
The girl lowered her head again. "He paid me a
lot of attention,” she finally confessed.


72
FIRE-TONGUE
“If you had," echoed Phil Abingdon, and was about
to carry on this wordy warfare which, Harley divined,
was of old standing between the two, when sudden
realization of the purpose of the visit came to her.
She paused, and he saw her biting her lips desperately.
Almost at random he began to speak again.
“So far as you are aware, then, Miss Abingdon,
Sir Charles never met Ormũz Khân?”
"He never even saw him, Mr. Harley, that I
know of.”
"It is most extraordinary that he should have
given me the impression that this man--for I can only
suppose that he referred to Ormûz Khân—was in
some way associated with his fears.”
“I must remind you, Mr. Harley," Doctor Mc-
Murdoch interrupted, “that poor Abingdon was a
free talker. His pride, I take it, which was strong,
had kept him silent on this matter with me, but he
welcomed an opportunity of easing his mind to one
discreet and outside the family circle. His words
to you may have had no bearing upon the thing he
wished to consult you about."
“H’m,” mused Harley. “That's possible. But
such was not my impression."
He turned again to Phil Abingdon. “This Or-
mûz Khân, I understood you to say, actually re-
sides in or near London?”
"He is at present living at the Savoy, I believe.
He also has a house somewhere outside London.”


74 :
FIRE-TONGUE
in the physician's face. Quick as the thought which
the look inspired, he turned to Phil Abingdon.
She was sitting quite motionless in the big arm-
chair, and her face had grown very pale. Even as
he sprang forward he saw her head droop.
“She has fainted,” said Doctor McMurdoch.
“I'm not surprised.”
"Nor I,” replied Harley. “She should not have
come.”
He opened the door communicating with his
private apartments and ran out. But, quick as he
was, Phil Abingdon had recovered before he re-
turned with the water for which he had gone. Her
reassuring smile was somewhat wan. “How per-
fectly silly of me!” she said. “I shall begin to
despise myself.”
Presently he went down to the street with his
visitors.
“There must be so much more you want to know,
Mr. Harley," said Phil Abingdon. “Will you come
and see me?”
He promised to do so. His sentiments were so
strangely complex that he experienced a desire for
solitude in order that he might strive to understand
them. As he stood at the door watching the car
move toward the Strand he knew that to-day he
could not count upon his intuitive powers to warn
him of sudden danger.' But he keenly examined the
faces of passers-by and stared at the occupants of


CONFESSIONS
75
those cabs and cars which were proceeding in the
same direction as the late Sir Charles Abingdon's
limousine.
No discovery rewarded him, however, and he re-
turned upstairs to his office deep in thought. “I
am in to nobody,” he said as he passed the desk at
which Innes was at work.
“Very good, Mr. Harley.”
Paul Harley walked through to the private office
and, seating himself at the big, orderly table, reached
over to a cupboard beside him and took out a tin of
smoking mixture. He began very slowly to load his
pipe, gazing abstractedly across the room at the tall
Burmese cabinet.
He realized that, excepting the extraordinary
behaviour and the veiled but significant statements of
Nicol Brinn, his theory that Sir Charles Abingdon
had not died from natural causes rested upon data
of the most flimsy description. From Phil Abingdon
he had learned nothing whatever. Her evidence
merely tended to confuse the case more hopelessly.
It was sheer nonsense to suppose that Ormûz
Khân, who was evidently interested in the girl,
could be in any way concerned in the death of her
father. Nevertheless, as an ordinary matter of
routine, Paul Harley, having lighted his pipe, made
a note on a little block:
Cover activities of Ormûz Khân.


76
FIRE-TONGUE
He smoked reflectively for a while and then added
another note:
Watch Nicol Brinn.
For ten minutes or more he sat smoking and think-
ing, his unseeing gaze set upon the gleaming lacquer
of the cabinet; and presently, as he smoked, he be-
came aware of an abrupt and momentary chill.
His sixth sense was awake again. Taking up a pen-
cil, he added a third note:
Watch yourself.
You are in danger,


CHAPTER VIII
A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
EEP in reflection and oblivious of the busy
London life around him, Paul Harley walked
slowly along the Strand. Outwardly he
was still the keen-eyed investigator who could
pry more deeply into a mystery than any other in
England; but to-day his mood was introspective.
He was in a brown study.
The one figure which had power to recall him to the
actual world suddenly intruded itself upon his field
of vision. From dreams which he recognized in
the moment of awakening to have been of Phil
Abingdon, he was suddenly aroused to the fact that
Phil Abingdon herself was present. Perhaps, half
subconsciously, he had been looking for her.
Veiled and dressed in black, he saw her slim figure
moving through the throng. He conceived the idea
that there was something furtive in her movements.
She seemed to be hurrying along asſif desirous of
avoiding recognition. Every now and again she
glanced back, evidently in search of a cab, and a
dormant suspicion which had lain in Harley's
mind now became animate. Phil Abingdon was


78
FIRE-TONGUE
coming from the direction of the Savoy Hotel.
Was it possible that she had been to visit Ormûz
Khân?
Harley crossed the Strand and paused just in
front of the hurrying, black-clad figure. “Miss
Abingdon,” he said, “a sort of instinct told me that
I should meet you to-day.”
She stopped suddenly, and through the black
veil which she wore he saw her eyes grow larger-
or such was the effect as she opened them widely.
Perhaps he misread their message. To him Phil
Abingdon's expression was that of detected guilt.
More than ever he was convinced of the truth of his
suspicions. "Perhaps you were looking for a cab?”
he suggested.
Overcoming her surprise, or whatever emotion had
claimed her at the moment of this unexpected meet-
ing, Phil Abingdon took Harley's outstretched hand
and held it for a moment before replying. “I had
almost despaired of finding one,” she said, “and I
am late already."
“The porter at the Savoy would get you one.”
"I have tried there and got tired of waiting,"
she answered quite simply.
For a moment Harley's suspicions were almost
dispelled, and, observing an empty cab approaching,
he signalled to the man to pull up.
“Where do you want to go to?” he inquired, open-
ing the door.


A WREATH OF HYACINTHS
79
“I am due at Doctor McMurdoch's," she replied,
stepping in.
Paul Harley hesitated, glancing from the speaker
to the driver.
"I wonder if you have time to come with me,”
said Phil Abingdon. “I know the doctor wants
to see you."
“I will come with pleasure,” replied Harley, a
statement which was no more than true.
Accordingly he gave the necessary directions to
the taxi man and seated himself beside the girl in
the cab.
"I am awfully glad of an opportunity of a chat
with you, Mr. Harley,” said Phil Abingdon. “The
last few days have seemed like one long nightmare
to me.” She sighed pathetically. “Surely Doctor
McMurdoch is right, and all the horrible doubts
which troubled us were idle ones, after all?”
She turned to Harley, looking almost eagerly
into his face. “Poor daddy hadn't an enemy in the
world, I am sure," she said. “His extraordinary
words to you no doubt have some simple explana-
tion. Oh, it would be such a relief to know that
his end was a natural one. At least it would dull
the misery of it all a little bit.”
The appeal in her eyes was of a kind which Harley
found much difficulty in resisting. It would have
been happiness to offer consolation to this sorrowing
girl. But, although he could not honestly assure
IC


80
FIRE-TONGUE
her that he had abandoned his theories, he realized
that the horror of her suspicions was having a
dreadful effect upon Phil Abingdon's mind.
“You may quite possibly be right,” he said, gently.
“In any event, I hope you will think as little as possi-
ble about the morbid side of this unhappy business.”
“I try to,” she assured him, earnestly, “but you
can imagine how hard the task is. I know that you
must have some good reason for your idea; some-
thing, I mean, other than the mere words which have
puzzled us all so much. Won't you tell me?”
Now, Paul Harley had determined, since the girl
was unacquainted with Nicol Brinn, to conceal
from her all that he had learned from that extraor-
dinary man. In this determination he had been
actuated, too, by the promptings of the note of
danger which, once seemingly attuned to the move-
ments of Sir Charles Abingdon, had, after the sur-
geon's death, apparently become centred upon
himself and upon Nicol Brinn. He dreaded the
thought that the cloud might stretch out over the
life of this girl who sat beside him and whom he
felt so urgently called upon to protect from such a
menace.
The cloud? What was this cloud, whence did it
emanate, and by whom had it been called into being?
He looked into the violet eyes, and as a while before
he had moved alone through the wilderness of London
now he seemed to be alone with Phil Abingdon on


A WREATH OF HYACINTHS 81
the border of a spirit world which had no existence
for the multitudes around. Psychically, he was very
close to her at that moment; and when he replied
he replied evasively: “I have absolutely no scrap of
evidence, Miss Abingdon, pointing to foul play.
The circumstances were peculiar, of course, but I
have every confidence in Doctor McMurdoch's effi-
ciency. Since he is satisfied, it would be mere im-
pertinence on my part to question his verdict.”
Phil Abingdon repeated the weary sigh and turned
her head aside, glancing down to where with one small
shoe she was restlessly tapping the floor of the cab.
They were both silent for some moments.
"Don't you trust me?” she asked, suddenly.
“Or don't you think I am clever enough to share your
confidence?”
As she spoke she looked at him challengingly,
and he felt all the force of personality which underlay
her outward lightness of manner.
"I both trust you and respect your intelligence,"
he answered, quietly. “If I withhold anything
from you, I am prompted by a very different motive
from the one you suggest.”
“Then you are keeping something from me," she
said, softly. “I knew you were.”
"Miss Abingdon,” replied Harley, "when the
worst trials of this affair are over, I want to have a
long talk with you. Until then, won't you believe
that I am acting for the best?”.


FIRE-TONGUE
But Phil Abingdon's glance was unrelenting.
“In your opinion it may be so, but you won't
do me the honour of consulting mine."
Harley had half anticipated this attitude, but
had hoped that she would not adopt it. She pos-
sessed in a high degree the feminine art of provoking
a quarrel. But he found much consolation in the
fact that she had thus shifted the discussion from the
abstract to the personal. He smiled slightly, and
Phil Abingdon's expression relaxed in response and
she lowered her eyes quickly. “Why do you per-
sistently treat me like a child ?" she said.
"I don't know," replied Harley, delighted but
bewildered by her sudden change of mood. “Per-
haps because I want to.”
She did not answer him, but stared abstractedly
out of the cab window; and Harley did not break
this silence, much as he would have liked to do so.
He was mentally reviewing his labours of the pre-
ceding day when, in the character of a Colonial
visitor with much time on his hands, he had haunted
the Savoy for hours in the hope of obtaining a glimpse
of Ormûz Khân. His vigil had been fruitless, and
on returning by a roundabout route to his office he
had bitterly charged himself with wasting valuable
time upon a side issue. Yet when, later, he had sat
in his study endeavouring to arrange his ideas in
order, he had discovered many points in his own
defence.


A WREATH OF HYACINTHS 83
If his ineffective surveillance of Ormûz Khân had
been dictated by interest in Phil Abingdon rather
than by strictly professional motives, it was, never-
theless, an ordinary part of the conduct of such a
·case. But while he had personally undertaken the
matter of his excellency he had left the work of study-
ing the activities of Nicol Brinn to an assistant.
He could not succeed in convincing himself that,
on the evidence available, the movements of the
Oriental gentleman were more important than those
of the American.
“Here we are,” said Phil Abingdon.
She alighted, and Harley dismissed the cabman and
followed the girl into Doctor McMurdoch's house.
Here he made the acquaintance of Mrs. McMurdoch,
who, as experience had taught him to anticipate,
was as plump and merry and vivacious as her hus-
band was lean, gloomy, and taciturn. But she was
a perfect well of sympathy, as her treatment of the
bereaved girl showed. She took her in her arms and
hugged her in a way that was good to see.
“We were waiting for you, dear,” she said when
the formality of presenting Harley was over. “Are
you quite sure that you want to go?”
Phil Abingdon nodded pathetically. She had
raised her veil, and Harley could see that her eyes
were full of tears. “I should like to see the flowers,"
she answered.
She was staying at the McMurdoch's house, and


84
FIRE-TONGUE
as the object at present in view was that of a visit to
her old home, from which the funeral of Sir Charles
Abingdon was to take place on the morrow, Harley
became suddenly conscious of the fact that his pres-
ence was inopportune.
“I believe you want to see me, Doctor McMur-
doch,” he said, turning to the dour physician.
“Shall I await your return or do you expect to be
detained?”
But Phil Abingdon had her own views on the
matter. She stepped up beside him and linked her
arm in his.
“Please come with me, Mr. Harley,” she pleaded.
“I want you to.”
As a result he found himself a few minutes later
entering the hall of the late Sir Charles's house.
The gloved hand resting on his arm trembled, but
when he looked down solicitously into Phil Abingdon's
face she smiled bravely, and momentarily her
clasp tightened as if to reassure him.
It seemed quite natural that she should derive
comfort from the presence of this comparative
stranger; and neither of the two, as they stood there
looking at the tributes to the memory of the late
Sir Charles—which overflowed from a neighbouring
room into the lobby and were even piled upon the
library table—were conscious of any strangeness in
the situation.
The first thing that had struck Harley on enter-


A WREATH OF HYACINTHS 85
ing the house had been an overpowering perfume of
hyacinths. Now he saw whence it arose; for,
conspicuous amid the wreaths and crosses, was an
enormous device formed of hyacinths. Its propor-
tions dwarfed those of all the others.
Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper, a sad-eyed little
figure, appeared now from behind the bank of
flowers. Her grief could not rob her of that Old
World manner which was hers, and she saluted the
visitors with a bow which promised to develop into a
curtsey. Noting the direction of Phil Abingdon's
glance, which was set upon a card attached to the
wreath of hyacinths: “It was the first to arrive,
Miss Phil,” she said. “Isn't it beautiful?”
"It's wonderful,” said the girl, moving forward
and drawing Harley along with her. She glanced
from the card up to his face, which was set in a
rather grim expression.
“Ormûz Khân has been so good," she said. “He
sent his secretary to see if he could be of any
assistance yesterday, but I certainly had not ex-
pected this.”
Her eyes filled with tears again, and, because he
thought they were tears of gratitude, Harley clenched
his hand tightly so that the muscles of his forearm
became taut to Phil Abingdon's touch. She looked
up at him, smiling pathetically: “Don't you think
it was awfully kind of him?" she asked.
“Very,” replied Harley.


86
FIRE-TONGUE
A dry and sepulchral cough of approval came
from Doctor McMurdoch; and Harley divined with
joy that when the ordeal of the next day was over
Phil Abingdon would have to face cross-examina-
tion by the conscientious Scotsman respecting
this stranger whose attentions, if Orientally extrava-
gant, were instinct with such generous sympathy.
For some reason the heavy perfume of the hya-
cinths affected him unpleasantly. All his old doubts
and suspicions found a new life, so that his share in
the conversation which presently arose became con-
fined to a few laconic answers to direct questions.
He was angry, and his anger was more than
half directed against himself, because he knew that
he had no shadow of right to question this girl
about her friendships or even to advise her. He
determined, however, even at the cost of incurring a
rebuke, to urge Doctor McMurdoch to employ all
the influence he possessed to terminate an ac-
quaintanceship which could not be otherwise than
undesirable, if it was not actually dangerous.
When, presently, the party returned to the neigh-
bouring house of the physician, however, Harley's
plans in this respect were destroyed by the action
of Doctor McMurdoch, in whose composition tact
was not a predominant factor. Almost before they
were seated in the doctor's drawing room he voiced
his disapproval. “Phil,” he said, ignoring a silent
appeal from his wife, “this is, mayhap, no time to


A WREATH OF HYACINTHS 89
speak of the matter, but I'm not glad to see the
hyacinths.”
Phil Abingdon's chin quivered rebelliously, and,
to Harley's dismay, it was upon him that she fixed
her gaze in replying. “Perhaps you also disapprove
of his excellency's kindness?” she said, indignantly.
Harley found himself temporarily at a loss for
words. She was perfectly well aware that he dis-
approved, and now was taking a cruel pleasure in
reminding him of the fact that he was not entitled
to do so. Had he been capable of that calm analysis
to which ordinarily he submitted all psychological
problems, he must have found matter for rejoicing
in this desire of the girl's to hurt him. “I am
afraid, Miss Abingdon,” he replied, quietly, “that
the matter is not one in which I am entitled to ex-
press my opinion.”
She continued to look at him challengingly, but:
“Quite right, Mr. Harley,” said Doctor Mc-
Murdoch, “but if you were, your opinion would
be the same as mine."
Mrs. McMurdoch's glance became positively be-
seeching, but the physician ignored it. “As your
father's oldest friend,” he continued, “I feel called
upon to remark that it isn't usual for strangers to
thrust their attentions upon a bereaved family."
“Oh,” said Phil Abingdon with animation, “do I
understand that this is also your opinion, Mr.
Harley?”


88
FIRE-TONGUE
“As a man of the world,” declared Doctor McMur.
doch, gloomily, “it cannot fail to be.”
Tardily enough he now succumbed to the silent
entreaties of his wife. "I will speak of this later,"
he concluded. “Mayhap I should not have spoken
now."
Tears began to trickle down Phil Abingdon's
cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried little Mrs. Mc-
Murdoch, running to her side.
But the girl sprang up, escaping from the en-
circling arm of the motherly old lady. She shook
her head disdainfully, as if to banish tears and weak-
ness, and glanced rapidly around from face to face.
“I think you are all perfectly cruel and horrible,"
she said in a choking voice, turned, and ran out.
A distant door banged.
"H’m,” muttered Doctor McMurdoch, “I've
put my foot in it.”
His wife looked at him in speechless indignation
and then followed Phil Abingdon from the room.


90
FIRE-TONGUE
Savoy, and Paul Harley of Chancery Lane, were
one and the same.
His brain was far too alertly engaged with troubled
thoughts of Phil Abingdon to be susceptible to the
influence of those delicate etheric waves which he
had come to recognize as the note of danger. Prac-
tically there had been no development whatever in
the investigation, and he was almost tempted to be-
lieve that the whole thing was a mirage, when the
sight of the typewritten report translated him men-
tally to the luxurious chambers in Piccadilly.
Again, almost clairvoyantly, he saw the stoical
American seated before the empty fireplace, his foot
restlessly tapping the fender. Again he heard the
curious, high tones: “I'll tell you. ... You
have opened the gates of hell...."
The whole scene, with its tantalizing under-
current of mystery, was reënacted before his inner
vision. He seemed to hear Nicol Brinn, startled
from his reverie, exclaim: “I think it was an owl.
... We sometimes get them over from the
Green Park. ..."
Why should so simple an incident have produced
so singular an effect? For the face of the speaker
had been ashen.
Then the pendulum swung inevitably back:
"You are all perfectly cruel and horrible...."
Paul Harley clenched his hands, frowning at the
Burmese cabinet as though he hated it.


TWO REPORTS
91
How persistently the voice of Phil Abingdon rang
in his ears! He could not forget her lightest words.
How hopelessly her bewitching image intruded it.
self between his reasoning mind and the problem
upon which he sought to concentrate.
Miss Smith, the typist, had gone, for it was after
six o'clock, and Innes alone was on duty. He came
in as Harley, placing his hat and cane upon the
big writing table, sat down to study the report.
"Inspector Wessex rang up, Mr. Harley, about
an hour ago. He said he would be at the Yard until
six.”
"Has he obtained any information?” asked Paul
Harley, wearily, glancing at his little table clock.
“He said he had had insufficient time to do much
in the matter, but that there were one or two out-
standing facts which might interest you.”
“Did he seem to be surprised?"
“He did,” confessed Innes. “He said that Ormûz
Khân was a well-known figure in financial circles,
and asked me in what way you were interested in
him."
“Ah!” murmured Harley. He took up the tele-
phone. “City 400," he said.... “Is that
the Commissioner's Office, New Scotland Yard?
... Paul Harley speaking. Would you please
inquire if Detective Inspector Wessex has gone?”
While awaiting a reply he looked up at Innes. “Is
there anything else?” he asked.


92
FIRE-TONGUE
"Only he letters, Mr. Harley.”
“No callers?”
“No."
“Leave the letters, then; I will see to them. You
need not wait.” A moment later, as his secretary
bade him good-night and went out of the office:
"Hello,” said Harley, speaking into the mouth-
piece.... “The inspector has gone? Perhaps
you would ask him to ring me up in the morn-
ing.” He replaced the receiver on the hook.
Resting his chin in his hands, he began to read
from the typewritten pages before him. His as-
sistant's report was conceived as follows:
Re Mr. Nicol Brinn of Raleigh House, Piccadilly, W. I.
Mr. Nicol Brinn is an American citizen, born at Cine
cinnati, Ohio, February 15, 1884. He is the son of
John Nicolas Brinn of the same city, founder of the
firm of J. Nicolas Brinn, Incorporated, later reconstituted
under the style of Brinn's Universal Electric Supply Cor-
poration.
Nicol Brinn is a graduate of Harvard. He has travelled
extensively in nearly all parts of the world and has access
to the best society of Europe and America. He has a
reputation for eccentricity, has won numerous sporting
events as a gentleman rider; was the first airman to fly
over the Rockies; took part in the Uruguay rebellion of
1904, and held the rank of lieutenant colonel of field
artillery with the American forces during the Great War.
He has published a work on big game and has contrib-
cted numerous travel articles to American periodicals.
On the death of Mr. Brinn, senior, in 1914, he inherited an


94
FIRE-TONGUE
Abingdon he did not believe for a moment; but that
this elusive case, which upon investigation only
seemed the more obscure, was nevertheless a case of
deliberate murder he was as firmly convinced as ever.
Of the identity of the murderer, of his motive, he
had not the haziest idea, but that the cloud which
he had pictured as overhanging the life of the late
Sir Charles was a reality and not a myth of the imagi-
nation he became more completely convinced with
each new failure to pick up a clue.
He found himself helplessly tied. In which direc-
tion should he move and to what end? Inclination
prompted him in one direction, common sense held
him back. As was his custom, he took a pencil and
wrote upon a little block:
Find means to force Brinn to speak.
He lay back in his chair again, deep in thought, and
presently added the note:
Obtain interview with Ormûz Khân.
Just as he replaced the pencil on the table, his tele-
phone bell rang. The caller proved to be his friend,
Inspector Wessex.
"Hello, Mr. Harley," said the inspector. “I had
occasion to return to the Yard, and they told me
you had rung up. I don't know why you are inter-
ested in this Ormûz Khân, unless you want to raise
a loan."
Paul Harley laughed. “I gather that he is a man


TWO REPORTS
95
of extensive means,” he replied, “but hitherto he has
remained outside my radius of observation.”
“And outside mine,” declared the inspector.
“He hasn't the most distant connection with any-
thing crooked. It gave me a lot of trouble to find
out what little I have found out. Briefly, all I have
to tell you is this: Ormûz Khân—who is apparently
entitled to be addressed as `his excellency'—is a di-
rector of the Imperial Bank of Iran, and is associated,
too, with one of the Ottoman banks. I presume
his nationality is Persian, but I can't be sure of it.
He periodically turns up in the various big capitals
when international loans and that sort of thing are
being negotiated. I understand that he has a flat
somewhere in Paris, and the Service de Sûrétè tells
me that his name is good for several million francs
over there. He appears to have a certain fondness
for London during the spring and early summer
months, and I am told he has a fine place in Surrey.
He is at present living at Savoy Court. He appears
to be something of a dandy and to be very partial
to the fair sex, but nevertheless there is nothing
wrong with his reputation, considering, I mean, that
the man is a sort of Eastern multimillionaire."
“Ah!” said Harley, who had been listening eagerly.
“Is that the extent of your information, Wessex?”
“That's it,” replied Wessex, with a laugh. “I
hope you'll find it useful, but I doubt it. He hasn't
been picking pockets or anything, has he?"


96
FIRE-TONGUE
"No," said Harley, shortly. “I don't apprehend
that his excellency will ever appear in your province,
Wessex. My interest in him is of a purely personal
nature. Thanks for all the trouble you have taken.”
Paul Harley began to pace the office. From a
professional point of view the information was un-
interesting enough, but from another point of view
it had awakened again that impotent anger which
he had too often experienced in these recent, strangely
restless days.
At all costs he must see Ormûz Khân, although how
he was to obtain access to this man who apparently
never left his private apartments (if the day of his
vigil at the Savoy had been a typical one) he failed
to imagine.
Nevertheless, pausing at the table, he again took
up his pencil, and to the note “Obtain interview
with Ormûz Khân” he added the one word, under-
lined:
“To-morrow.”


CHAPTER X
HIS EXCELLENCY ORMÛZ KHÂN
\HE city clocks were chiming the hour of ten
on the following morning when a page from
the Savoy approached the shop of Mr. Jarvis,
bootmaker, which is situated at no great distance
from the hotel. The impudent face of the small boy
wore an expression of serio-comic fright as he pushed
open the door and entered the shop.
Jarvis, the bootmaker, belonged to a rapidly dis-
appearing class of British tradesmen. He truckled
to no one, but took an artistic pride in his own handi-
work, criticism from a layman merely provoking
a scornful anger which had lost Jarvis many good
customers.
He was engaged, at the moment of the page's
entrance, in a little fitting room at the back of his
cramped premises, but through the doorway the
boy could see the red, bespectacled face with its
fringe of bristling white beard, in which he detected
all the tokens of brewing storm. He whistled softly
in self-sympathy.
“Yes, sir,” Jarvis was saying to an invisible patron,
“it's a welcome sight to ser a real Englishman walk
97


HIS EXCELLENCY ORMŪZ KHÂN 99
He paused for several moments, staring in a kind
of stupefied admiration at the closed door of Mr.
Jarvis's establishment. He whistled again, softly,
and then began to run-for the formidable Mr.
Jarvis suddenly opened the door. “Hi, boy!” he
called to the page. The page hesitated, glancing
back doubtfully. “Tell his excellency that I will
send round in about half an hour to remeasure his
foot.”
“D'you mean it?” inquired the boy, impudently-
"or is there a catch in it?”.
“I'll tan your hide, my lad!” cried the bootmaker
-"and I mean that! Take my message and keep
your mouth shut.”
The boy departed, grinning, and little more than
half an hour later a respectable-looking man pre-
sented himself at Savoy Court, inquiring of the
attendant near the elevator for the apartments of
“his excellency,” followed by an unintelligible word
which presumably represented “Ormûz Khân.”
The visitor wore a well-brushed but threadbare
tweed suit, although his soft collar was by no means
clean. He had a short, reddish-brown beard, and
very thick, curling hair of the same hue protruded
from beneath a bowler hat which had seen long ser-
vice.
Like Mr. Jarvis, he was bespectacled, and his
teeth were much discoloured and apparently broken
in front, as is usual with cobblers. His hands, too,


HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHÂN 101
Khân,” he said, and rang the bell beside a door. As
he hurried away, “Good luck!” he called back.
There was a short interval, and then the door was
opened by a man who looked like a Hindu. He
wore correct morning dress and through gold-rimmed
pince-nez he stared inquiringly at the caller.
“Is his excellency at home?” asked the latter.
“I'm from Mr. Jarvis, the bootmaker.”
“Oh!” said the other, smiling slightly. “Come
in. What is your name?”
"Parker, sir. From Mr. Jarvis.”
As the door closed, Parker found himself in a small
lobby. Beside an umbrella rack a high-backed chair
was placed. “Sit down,” he was directed. “I will
tell his excellency that you are here."
A door was opened and closed again, and Parker
found himself alone. He twirled his bowler hat,
which he held in his hand, and stared about the place
vacantly. Once he began to whistle, but checked
himself and coughed nervously. Finally the Hindu
gentleman reappeared, beckoning to him to enter.
Parker stood up very quickly and advanced, hat
in hand.
Then he remembered the box which he had left
on the floor, and, stooping to recover it, he dropped
his hat. But at last, leaving his hat upon the chair
and carrying the box under his arm, he entered a
room which had been converted into a very business,
like office.


102
FIRE-TONGUE
There was a typewriter upon a table near the
window at which someone had evidently been at
work quite recently, and upon a larger table in the
centre of the room were dispatch boxes, neat parcels
of documents, ledgers, works of reference, and all the
evidence of keen commercial activity. Crossing
the room, the Hindu rapped upon an inner door,
opened it, and standing aside, “The man from the
bootmaker,” he said in a low voice.
Parker advanced, peering about him as one un-
familiar with his surroundings. As he crossed the
threshold the door was closed behind him, and he
found himself in a superheated atmosphere heavy
with the perfume of hyacinths.
The place was furnished as a sitting room, but
some of its appointments were obviously impor-
tations. Its keynote was orientalism, not of that
sensuous yet grossly masculine character which
surrounds the wealthy Eastern esthete but quite
markedly feminine. There were an extraordinary
number of cushions, and many bowls and vases con-
taining hyacinths. What other strange appoint-
ments were present Parker was far too nervous to
observe.
He stood dumbly before a man who lolled back
in a deep, cushioned chair and whose almond-
shaped eyes, black as night, were set immovably
upon him. This man was apparently young. He
wore a rich, brocaded robe, trimmed with marten


HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHÂN 103.
fur, and out of it his long ivory throat rose statu-
esquely. His complexion was likewise of this uni-
form ivory colour, and from his low smooth brow
his hair was brushed back in a series of glossy black
waves.
His lips were full and very red. As a woman he
might have been considered handsome—even beauti-
ful; in a man this beauty was unnatural and repel-
lent. He wore Oriental slippers, fur-lined, and his
feet rested on a small ottoman. One long, slender
hand lay upon a cushion placed on the chair arm,
and a pretty girl was busily engaged in manicuring
his excellency's nails. Although the day held every
promise of being uncomfortably hot, already a huge
fire was burning in the grate.
As Parker stood before him, the languid, hand-
some Oriental did not stir a muscle, merely keeping
the gaze of his strange black eyes fixed upon the
nervous cobbler. The manicurist, after one quick
upward glance, continued her work. But in this
moment of distraction she had hurt the cuticle of
one of those delicate, slender fingers.
Ormûz Khân withdrew his hand sharply from the
cushion, glanced aside at the girl, and then, extend-
ing his hand again, pushed her away from him. Be-
cause of her half-kneeling posture, she almost fell,
but managed to recover herself by clutching at the
edge of a little table upon which the implements
of her trade were spread. The table rocked and a


104
FIRE-TONGUE
bowl of water fell crashing on the carpet. His ex
cellency spoke. His voice was very musical.
“Clumsy fool," he said. “You have hurt me.
Go.”
The girl became very white and began to gather
up the articles upon the table. “I am sorry," she
said, “but- "
“I do not wish you to speak,” continued the
musical voice; "only to go.”
Hurriedly collecting the remainder of the imple-
ments and placing them in an attaché case, the
manicurist hurried from the room. Her eyes were
overbright and her lips pathetically tremulous.
Ormûz Khân never glanced in her direction again,
but resumed his disconcerting survey of Parker.
“Yes?” he said.
Parker fumblingly began to remove the lid of
the cardboard box which he had brought with him,
"I do not wish you to alter the shoes you have
made," said his excellency. “I instructed you to
remeasure my foot in order that you might make a
pair to fit.”
“Yes, sir,” said Parker. “Quite so, your ex-
cellency.” And he dropped the box and the shoes
upon the floor. “Just a moment, sir?”.
From an inner pocket he drew out a large sheet of
white paper, a pencil, and a tape measure. “Will
you place your foot upon this sheet of paper, sir?”
Ormûz Khân raised his right foot listlessly.


106
FIRE-TONGUE
In the outer room the courteous secretary awaited
Parker, and there was apparently no one else in the
place, for the Hindu conducted him to the lobby and
opened the door.
Parker said “Good morning, sir,” and would have
departed without his hat had not the secretary
smilingly handed it to him.
When, presently, the cobbler emerged from the
elevator, below, he paused before leaving the hotel
to mop his perspiring brow with a large, soiled hand-
kerchief. The perfume of hyacinths seemed to
have pursued him, bringing with it a memory of the
handsome, effeminate ivory face of the man above.
He was recalled to his senses by the voice of the im-
pudent page.
“Been kicked out, gov'nor?” the youth inquired.
“You're the third this morning.”
“Is that so?" answered Parker. “Who were the
other two, lad?”
“The girl wot comes to do his nails. A stunnin'
bird, too. She came down cryin' a few minutes ago.
Then "
"Shut up, Chivers!” cried the hall porter. “You're
asking for the sack, and I'm the man to get it for
you.”
Chivers did not appear to be vastly perturbed
by this prospect, and he grinned agreeably at Parker
as the latter made his way out into the courtyard.
Any one sufficiently interested to have done so,


HIS EXCELLENCY ORMUZ KHÂN 107
might have found matter for surprise had he fol-
lowed that conscientious bootmaker as he left the
hotel. He did not proceed to the shop of Mr.
Jarvis, but, crossing the Strand, mounted a city-
bound motor bus and proceeded eastward upon it
as far as the Law Courts. Here he dismounted
and plunged into that maze of tortuous lanes which
dissects the triangle formed by Chancery Lane and
Holborn.
His step was leisurely, and once he stopped to
light his pipe, peering with interest into the shop
window of a law stationer. Finally he came to
another little shop which had once formed part of
a private house. It was of the lock-up variety, and
upon the gauze blind which concealed the interior
appeared the words: “The Chancery Agency."
Whether the Chancery Agency was a press agen-
cy, a literary or a dramatic agency, was not specified,
but Mr. Parker was evidently well acquainted with
the establishment, for he unlocked the door with a
key which he carried and, entering a tiny shop,
closed and locked the door behind him again.
The place was not more than ten yards square
and the ceiling was very low. It was barely fur-
nished as an office, but evidently Mr. Parker's busi-
ness was not of a nature to detain him here. There
was a second door to be unlocked; and beyond it
appeared a flight of narrow stairs—at some time the
servant's stair of the partially demolished house


CHAPTER XI
THE PURPLE STAIN
NOR more than an hour Harley sat alone, smok-
ing, neglectful of the routine duties which
should have claimed his attention. His face
was set and grim, and his expression one of total
abstraction. In spirit he stood again in that super-
heated room at the Savoy. Sometimes, as he mused,
he would smoke with unconscious vigour, surround-
ing himself with veritable fog banks. An imaginary
breath of hyacinths would have reached him, to con-
jure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of
Ormũ Khân.
He was savagely aware of a great mental disorder-
liness. He recognized that his brain remained a
mere whirlpool from which Phyllis Abingdon, the
deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and another,
alternately arose to claim supremacy. He clenched
his teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.
But after some time, although rebelliously, his
thoughts began to marshal themselves in a certain
definite formation. And outstanding, alone, re-
moved from the ordinary, almost from the real, was
the bizarre personality of Ormûz Khân.
1ο9


IIO
FIRE-TONGUE
The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supa
plied by Inspector Wessex, had led him to expect quite
a different type of character. Inured as Paul Harley
was to surprise, his first sentiment as he had set eyes
upon the man had been one of sheer amazement.
"Something of a dandy,” inadequately described
the repellent sensuousness of this veritable poten-
tate, who could contrive to invest a sitting room
in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a secret
Eastern household. To consider Ormûz Khân in
connection with matters of international finance was
wildly incongruous, while the manicurist incident in-
dicated an inherent cruelty only possible in one of
Oriental race.
In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul
Harley found himself looking again into those black,
inscrutable eyes and trying to analyze the elusive
quality of their regard. They were unlike any eyes
that he had met with. It were folly to count their
possessor a negligible quantity. Nevertheless, it
was difficult, because of the fellow's scented ef-
feminacy, to believe that women could find him
attractive. But Harley, wise in worldly lore, per-
ceived that the mystery surrounding Ormûz Khân
must make a strong appeal to a certain type of fe-
male mind. He was forced to admit that some
women, indeed many, would be as clay in the hands
of the man who possessed those long-lashed, maga
netic eyes.


112
FIRE-TONGUE
papers which he carried, “there is nothing that
could not wait until to-morrow at a pinch.”
“The pinch has come,” said Harley. “I am go-
ing to interview the two most important witnesses
in the Abingdon case.”
"To whom do you refer, Mr. Harley?”
Innes stared rather blankly, as he made the in-
quiry, whereupon:
“I have no time to explain,” continued Harley.
“But I have suddenly realized the importance of a
seemingly trivial incident which I witnessed. It is
these trivial incidents, Innes, which so often con-
tain the hidden clue."
“What! you really think you have a clue at
last?"
whaten. Listmaz Khai
"I do.” The speaker's face grew grimly serious.
"Innes, if I am right, I shall probably proceed to
one of two places: the apartments of Ormûz Khân
or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen. Remain
here until I 'phone-whatever the hour.”
“Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?”
Harley nodded. “Yes—do so. You understand,
Innes, I am engaged and not to be disturbed on any
account?"
"I understand. You are going out by the private
exit?”
"Exactly.”
As Innes retired, quietly closing the door, Harley
took up the telephone and called Sir Charles Abing


THE PURPLE STAIN
113
don's number. He was answered by a voice which
he recognized. . .
“This is Paul Harley speaking,” he said. “Is
that Benson?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the butler. “Good morn-
ing, sir."
“Good morning, Benson. I have one or two
questions to ask you, and there is something I want
you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is out, I pre-
sume?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Benson, sadly. “At the fun-
eral, sir."
“Is Mrs. Howett in?”
“She is, sir.”
"I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour,
Benson. In the meantime, will you be good enough
to lay the dining table exactly as it was laid on the
night of Sir Charles's death?”
Benson could be heard nervously clearing his
throat, then: "Perhaps, sir,” he said, diffidently,
"I didn't quite understand you. Lay the table,
sir, for dinner?”
“For dinner-exactly. I want everything to be
there that was present on the night of the tragedy;
everything. Naturally you will have to place dif-
ferent flowers in the vases, but I want to see the
same vases. From the soup tureen to the serviette
rings, Benson, I wish you to duplicate the dinner
table as I remember it, paying particular attention


THE PURPLE STAIN
115
As he alighted from a cab before the house of the
late Sir Charles, Benson opened the door. “We
have just finished, sir," he said, as Harley ran up
the steps. “But Mrs. Howett would like to see
01
you, sir.”
“Very good, Benson,” replied Harley, handing
his hat and cane to the butler. “I will see her in the
dining room, please.”
Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley
walked into the room which so often figured in his
vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in
accordance with his directions. The chair which he
remembered to have occupied was in place and that
in which Sir Charles had died was set at the head of
the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the
room, looking slowly about him. And, as he stood
so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to the door-
way. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs.
Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
“Ah, Mrs. Howett,” said Harley, kindly, "please
try to forgive me for this unpleasant farce with its
painful memories. But I have a good reason. I
think you know this. Now, as I am naturally
anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abing-
don returns, will you be good enough to tell me if
the table is at present set exactly as on the night
that Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?”.
“No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, “that was


116
FIRE-TONGUE
what I was anxious to explain. The table is now
laid as Benson left it on that dreadful night."
“Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some
modifications?”
"I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre
vaseso.” The methodical old lady illustrated
her words. “I also had the dessert spoons changed.
• You remember, Benson?”
Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he
took out two silver spoons which he substituted for
those already set upon the table.
“Anything else, Mrs. Howett?"
“The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes
before your arrival. Just after your arrival I found
Jones, the parlourmaid-a most incompetent, im-
pudent girl-altering the position of the serviettes.
At least, such was my impression.”
“Of the serviettes ?” murmured Harley.
“She denied it," continued the housekeeper,
speaking with great animation; “but she could give
no explanation. It was the last straw. She took
too many liberties altogether.”
As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on
animatedly, but Harley was no longer listening.
“This is not the same table linen?” he asked,
suddenly.
“Why, no, sir,” replied Benson. "Last week's
linen will be at the laundry.”
“It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett.


THE PURPLE STAIN
117
“I was making up the list when you brought me
Mr. Harley's message.”
Paul Harley turned to her.
“May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at
table on that occasion, Mrs. Howett?” he said.
“My request must appear singular, I know, but I
assure you it is no idle one."
Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett,
who had conceived a sort of reverence for Paul Har-
ley, hurried away excitedly.
"Finally, Benson,” said Harley, “what else did
you bring into the room after Sir Charles and I had
entered?”
"Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard,
and all the soup plates of the service in use that
night. Of course, sir, I can't say which were the
actual plates used.”
Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old
Derby ware, and gazed meditatively at the silver
ladle. “Did the maid, Jones, handle any of these?”
he asked.
“No, sir"--emphatically. “She was preparing
to bring the trout from the kitchen."
“But I saw her in the room.”
“She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat,
and two toast racks, sir. She put them here, on
the sideboard. But they were never brought to the
table.”
“H’m. Has Jones left?”


118
FIRE-TONGUE
“Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her
rudeness, Mrs. Howett packed her off right away,
She left the very next day after poor Sir Charles
died.”
“Where has she gone?”.
“To a married sister, I believe, until she finds à
new job. Mrs. Howett has the address.”
At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a
tablecloth and a number of serviettes.
“This was the cloth,” she said, spreading it out,
"but which of the serviettes were used I cannot
say."
“Allow me to look," replied Paul Harley.
One by one he began to inspect the serviettes,
opening each in turn and examining it critically.
“What have we here!” he exclaimed, presently.
“Have blackberries been served within the week,
Mrs. Howett?”
“We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley.
Sir Charles—God rest him—said they irritated the
stomach. Good gracious!” She turned to Ben-
son. “How is it I never noticed those stains, and
what can have caused them?”.
The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched
was covered all over with dark purple spots.


CHAPTER XII
THE VEIL IS RAISED
ISING from the writing table in the library,
Paul Harley crossed to the mantelpiece and
I stared long and hungrily at a photograph in
a silver frame. So closely did he concentrate upon
it that he induced a sort of auto-hypnosis, so that
Phil Abingdon seemed to smile at him sadly. Then
a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant face. The
soft outline changed, subtly; the lips grew more full,
became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened and grew
languorous. He found himself looking into the face
of Omũz Khân.
“Damn it!” he muttered, awakened from his
trance.
He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unac-
countable chill. It might have been caused by the
mental picture which he had conjured up, or it
might be another of those mysterious warnings of
which latterly he had had so many without encoun-
tering any positive danger. He stood quite still,
listening.
Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment,
and often enough asked himself what he had expected
119


120
FIRE-TONGUE
to hear. It was from this room, on an earlier oc-
casion, that he had heard the ominous movements
in the apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.
“Benson," he called, opening the library door.
As the man came along the hall: “I have written a
note to Mr. Innes, my secretary,” he explained.
“There it is, on the table. When the district mes-
senger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him
the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other
receipt than that of Mr. Innes.”
“Very good, sir."
Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened
the front door.
“Good day, sir,” said the butler.
“Good day, Benson,” called Harley, hurrying
out to the waiting cab. “Number 236 South Lam-
beth Road,” he directed the man.
Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the
cushions heaving a long sigh. The irksome period
of inaction was ended. The cloud which for a time
had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He was
by no means sure that enlightenment had come in
time, but at least he was in hot pursuit of a tangible
clue, and he must hope that it would lead him,
though tardily, to the heart of this labyrinth which
concealed—what?
Which concealed something, or someone, known
and feared as Fire-Tongue.
For the moment he must focus upon establishing,


THE VEIL IS RAISED
123
beyond query or doubt, the fact that Sir Charles
Abingdon had not died from natural causes. Pre
monitions, intuitions, beliefs resting upon a founda.
tion of strange dreams—these were helpful to him-
self, if properly employed, but they were not legal
evidence. This first point achieved, the motive of
the crime must be sought; and then the criminal.
"One thing at a time,” Harley finally murmured.
Turning his head, he glanced back at the traffic
in the street behind him. The action was sheerly
automatic. He had ceased to expect to detect the
presence of any pursuer. Yet he was convinced
that his every movement was closely watched. It
was uncanny, unnerving, this consciousness of in-
visible surveillance. Now, as he looked, he started.
The invisible had become the visible.
His cab was just on the point of turning on to the
slope of Vauxhall Bridge. And fifty yards behind,
speeding along the Embankment, was a small French
car. The features of the driver he had no time to
observe. But, peering eagerly through the window,
showed the dark face of the passenger. The man's
nationality it was impossible to determine, but the
keen, almost savage interest, betrayed by the glitter-
ing black eyes, it was equally impossible to mistake.
If the following car had turned on to the bridge,
Harley, even yet, might have entertained a certain
doubt. But, mentally putting himself in the pure
suer's place, he imagined himself detected and knew


122
FIRE-TONGUE
at once exactly what he should do. Since this hy.
pothetical course was actually pursued by the
other, Harley's belief was confirmed.
Craning his neck, he saw the little French car
turn abruptly and proceed in the direction of Vic-
toria Station. Instantly he acted.
Leaning out of the window he thrust a ten-
shilling note into the cabman's hand. “Slow down,
but don't pull up,” he directed. “I am going to
jump out just as you pass that lorry ahead. Ten
yards further on stop. Get down and crank your
engine, and then proceed slowly over the bridge.
I shall not want you again.”
“Right-oh, sir," said the man, grinning broadly.
As a result, immediately he was afforded the
necessary cover, Harley jumped from the cab. The
man reached back and closed the door, proceeding on
his leisurely way. Excepting the driver of the lorry,
no one witnessed this eccentric performance, and
Harley, stepping on to the footpath, quietly joined
the stream of pedestrians and strolled slowly along.
He presently passed the stationary cab without
giving any sign of recognition to the dismounted
driver. Then, a minute later, the cab overtook him
and was soon lost in the traffic ahead. Even as it
disappeared another cab went by rapidly.
Leaning forward in order to peer through the
front window was the dark-faced man whom he had
detected on the Embankment!
ma


THE VEIL IS RAISED
125
He extended his arm to detain her. But she
thrust it aside. “My boy's waiting round the
corner!” she said, viciously. “Just see what he'll
do when I tell him!”
“Step inside,” repeated Harley, quietly. “Or
accompany me to Kennington Lane Police Station-
whichever you think would be the more amusing."
“What d'you mean!” blustered the girl. “You
can't kid me. I haven't done anything."
“Then do as I tell you. You have got to answer
my questions—either here or at the station. Which
shall it be?”
He had realized the facts of the situation from the
moment when the girl had made her sudden ap-
pearance, and he knew that his only chance of de-
feating his cunning opponents was to frighten her.
Delicate measures would be wasted upon such a
character. But even as the girl, Alinging herself
sullenly about, returned into the passage, he found
himself admiring the resourcefulness of his unknown
enemies.
A tired-looking woman carrying a child appeared
from somewhere and stared apathetically at Harley.
Addressing the angry girl: “Another o' your
flames, Polly?” she inquired in a dull voice. “Has
he made you change your mind already?”
The girl addressed as “Polly” dropped her grip
on the floor and, banging open a door, entered a
shabby little sitting room, followed by Harley.


THE VEIL IS RAISED 127
face, and returned the timepiece to his pocket. “I
have warned you," he said. “In exactly three
minutes' time I shall put you under arrest.”
The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her
face, looked up at him. At last he had broken
down her obstinate resistance. Already he had
noted the coarse, elemental formation of her hands,
and now, the veil removed, he saw that she belonged
to a type of character often found in Wales and
closely duplicated in certain parts of London. There
was a curious flatness of feature and prominence of
upper jaw singularly reminiscent of the primitive
Briton. Withal the girl was not unprepossessing
in her coarse way. Utter stupidity and dogged
courage are the outstanding characteristics of
this type. But fear of the law is strong within
them.
“Don't arrest me," she said. “I'll tell you."
“Good. In the first place, then, where were you
going when I came here?”
“To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station."
“What is his name?”
“I'm not going to tell you. What's he done?"
“He has done murder. What is his name?”
“My God!” whispered the girl, and her face
blanched swiftly. “Murder! I–I can't tell you
his name ”
“You mean you won't?"
She did not answer.
USIS


THE VEIL IS RAISED
129
“You did this?"
“Yes. But he brought it back."
“When?”
“The afternoon "
“Before Sir Charles's death? Yes. Go on. What
did he tell you to do with this serviette?”
"It—was in a box. He said I was not to open
the box until I put the serviette on the table, and
that it had to be put by Sir Charles's plate. It had
to be put there just before the meal began.”
“What else?”
“I had to burn the box.”
“Well?”
“That night I couldn't see how it was to be done.
Benson had laid the dinner table and Mrs. Howett
was pottering about. Then, when I thought I had
my chance, Sir Charles sat down in the dining room
and began to read. He was still there and I had
the box hidden in the hall stand, all ready, when-
Sidney-rang up."
“Rang you up?"
“Yes. We had arranged it. He said he was my
brother. I had to tell him I couldn't do it.”
“Yes!”
"He said: “You must.' I told him Sir Charles was
in the dining room, and he said: “I'll get him away.
· Directly he goes, don't fail to do what I told you'.”
“And then?”
“Another 'phone call came for Sir Charles. I


130
FIRE-TONGUE
knew who it was, because I had told Sidney about the
case Sir Charles was attending in the square. When
Sir Charles went out I changed the serviettes. Mrs.
Howett found me in the dining room and played hell.
But afterward I managed to burn the box in the
kitchen. That's all I know. What harm was there?”
“Harm enough!” said Harley, grimly. “And
now-what was it that 'Sidney' stole from Sir
Charles's bureau in the study?”
The girl started and bit her lip convulsively. “It
wasn't stealing," she muttered. “It wasn't worth
anything."
“Answer me. What did he take?”
“He took nothing."
“For the last time: answer.”
“It wasn't Sidney who took it. I took it."
“You took what?"
“A paper.”
“You mean that you stole Sir Charles's keys and
opened his bureau?”
“There was no stealing. He was out and they
were lying on his dressing table. Sidney had told
me to do it the first time I got a chance."
“What had he told you to do?”
“To search through Sir Charles's papers and see if
there was anything with the word 'Fire-Tongue'in it!”
"Ah!” exclaimed Harley, a note of suppressed
triumph in his voice. “Go on.”
“There was only one paper about it,” continued


132
FIRE-TONGUE
The girl shook her head.
“It was not Ormûz Khân?”.
“No. I am sure it wasn't."
Paul Harley's expression underwent a sudden
change. “Was it Brown?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I believe it did begin with a B,”
she admitted.
“Was it Brunn?”.
“No! I remember, sir. It was Brinn!”
“Good God!" muttered Harley. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Do you know any one of that name?”
“No, sir.”
“And is this positively all you remember?"
“On my oath, it is.”
“How often have you seen Sidney since your dis-
missal?”
“I saw him on the morning I left."
“And then not again until to-day?”
“No.”
“Does he live in London?”
“No. He is a valet to a gentleman who lives in
the country.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me."
“What is the name of the place?”
“I don't know.”
“Once again—what is the name of the place?"
The girl bit her lip.


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 be-
hind 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 emo-
tion in that stoic face the most expert physiogno-
mist 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.
TOO
UT
134


NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR 135
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 re-
peated.
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 di-
rection of a large armchair.
“Pray sit down, Inspector," he said.
The high, monotonous voice expressed neither
surprise nor welcome, nor any other sentiment what-
ever.
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, photo-
graphed the personality of the man indelibly upon
that keen brain.


136
FIRE-TONGUE
Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and
did not appear to be quite at ease.
“What is it?” inquired Nicol Brinn, and pro-
ceeded 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."
“Shortest way," drawled Nicol Brinn. "Don't
study me.”
“Thanks," said Wessex, “I'll do my best. It's
like this”—he stared frankly at the impassive face:
“Where is Mr. Paul Harley?”
Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar
meditatively for a moment and then replaced it in
the right and not in the left corner of his mouth
Even to the trained eye of the detective inspector
he seemed to be quite unmoved, but one who knew
him well would have recognized that this simple ac-
tion betokened suppressed excitement.
“He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednes-
day night,” replied the American. “I had never seen
him before and I have never seen him since.”
“Sure?"
“Quite."
“Could you swear to it before a jury?”
“You seem to doubt my word.”
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. “Mr.
Brinn," he said, “I am in an awkward corner. I
know you for a man with a fine sporting reputation,


NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR 137
and therefore I don't doubt your word. But Mr.
Paul Harley disappeared last night.”
At last Nicol Brinn was moved. A second time
he took the cigar from his mouth, gazed at the end
reflectively, and then hurled the cigar across the
room into the hearth. He stood up, walked to a
window, and stared out. "Just sit quiet a minute,"
came the toneless voice. “You've hit me harder
than you know. I want to think it out.”
At the back of the tall, slim figure Detective In-
spector Wessex stared with a sort of wonder. Mr.
Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati was a conundrum which
he found himself unable to catalogue, although in
his gallery of queer characters were many eccentric
and peculiar. If Nicol Brinn should prove to be
crooked, then automatically he became insane. This
Wessex had reasoned out even before he had set
eyes upon the celebrated American traveller. His
very first glimpse of Nicol Brinn had confirmed his
reasoning, except that the cool, calm strength of
the man had done much to upset the theory of
lunacy.
Followed ar, interval of unbroken silence. Not
even the ticking of a clock could be heard in that
long, singularly furnished apartment. Then, as the
detective continued to gaze upon the back of Mr.
Nicol Brinn, suddenly the latter turned.
“Detective Inspector Wessex," he said, “there
has been a cloud hanging over my head for seven


138
FIRE-TONGUE
years. That cloud is going to burst very soon, and
it looks as if it were going to do damage.”
“I don't understand you, sir," replied the de-
tective, bluntly. “But I have been put in charge of
the most extraordinary case that has ever come my
way, and I'll ask you to make yourself as clear as
possible.”
“I'll do all I can," Nicol Brinn assured him. “But
first tell me something: Why have you come to me
for information in respect to Mr. Paul Harley?”
“I'll answer your question,” said Wessex, and the
fact did not escape the keen observing power of
Nicol Brinn that the detective's manner had grown
guarded. “He informed Mr. Innes, his secretary,
before setting out, that he was coming here to your
chambers.”
Nicol Brinn stared blankly at the speaker. “He
told him that? When?”
“Yesterday.”
“That he was coming here?”
“He did.”
Nicol Brinn sat down again upon the settee. “De-
tective Inspector," said he, "I give you my word of
honour as a gentleman that I last saw Mr. Paul Har-
ley at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night. Since then,
not only have I not seen him, but I have received
no communication from him.”
The keen glance of the detective met and chal-
lenged the dull glance of the speaker. “I accept
се


NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR 139
your word, sir,” said Wessex, finally, and he sighed
and scratched his chin in the manner of a man
hopelessly puzzled.
Silence fell again. The muted sounds of Piccadilly
became audible in the stillness. Cabs and cars rolled
by below, their occupants all unaware of the fact that
in that long, museumlike room above their heads lay
the key to a tragedy and the clue to a mystery.
"Look here, sir," said the detective, suddenly,
“the result of Mr. Paul Harley's investigations
right up to date has been placed in my hands, to-
gether with all his notes. I wonder if you realize
the fact that, supposing Mr. Harley does not re-
turn, I am in possession of sufficient evidence to
justify me in putting you under arrest?”
"I see your point quite clearly,” replied Nicol
Brinn. “I have seen my danger since the evening that
Mr. Paul Harley walked into this room; but I'll con-
fess I did not anticipate this particular development."
“To get right down to business,” said Wessex, "if
Mr. Paul Harley did not come here, where, in your
idea, did he go?”
Nicol Brinn considered the speaker meditatively.
“If I knew that,” said he, “maybe I could help. I
told him here in this very room that the pair of us
were walking on the edge of hell. I don't like to say
it, and you don't know all it means, but in my opin-
ion he has taken a step too far.”
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up impatiently.


140
FIRE-TONGUE
“You have already talked in that strain to Mr. Har-
ley," he said, a trifle brusquely. “Mr. Innes has
reported something of the conversation to me. But
I must ask you to remember that, whereas Mr. Paul
Harley is an unofficial investigator, I am an officer
of the Criminal Investigation Department, and
figures of speech are of no use to me. I want facts.
I want plain speaking. I ask you for help and you
answer in parables. Now perhaps I am saying too
much, and perhaps I am not, but that Mr. Harley
was right in what he believed, the circumstances
of his present disappearance go to prove. He learned
too much about something called Fire-Tongue.”
Wessex spoke the word challengingly, staring
straight into the eyes of Nicol Brinn, but the latter
gave no sign, and Wessex, concealing his disappoint-
ment, continued: “You know more about Fire-
Tongue than you ever told Mr. Paul Harley. All
you know I have got to know. Mr. Harley has
been kidnapped, perhaps done to death."
“Why do you say so?” asked Nicol Brinn, rapidly.
“Because I know it is so. It does not matter how
I know.”
“You are certain that his absence is not volun-
tary?”
“We have definite evidence to that effect.”
“I don't expect you to be frank with me, Detec-
tive Inspector, but I'll be as frank with you as I can
be. I haven't the slightest idea in the world where


NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR 141
Mr. Harley is. But I have information which, if I
knew where he was, would quite possibly enable me
to rescue him.”
“Provided he is alive!” added Wessex, angrily.
“What leads you to suppose that he is not?”
. "If he is alive, he is a prisoner.”
“Good God!” said Nicol Brinn in a low voice.
“It has come.” He took a step toward the detec-
tive. “Mr. Wessex,” he continued, “I don't tell
you to do whatever your duty indicates; I know you
will do it. But in the interests of everybody con-
cerned I have a request to make. Have me watched
if you like-I suppose that's automatic. But what-
ever happens, and wherever your suspicions point,
give me twenty-four hours. As I think you can see,
I am a man who thinks slowly, but moves with a
rush. You can believe me or not, but I am even
more anxious than you are to see this thing through.
You think I know what lies back of it all, and I
don't say that you are not right. But one thing
you don't know, and that thing I can't tell you. In
twenty-four hours I might be able to tell you. What-
ever happens, even if poor Harley is found dead,
don't hamper my movements between now and this
time to-morrow."
Wessex, who had been watching the speaker in-
tently, suddenly held out his hand. “It's a bet!”
he said. “It's my case, and I'll conduct it in my
own way.”


CHAPTER XIV
WESSEX GETS BUSY
TNNES rose from the chair usually occupied by
Paul Harley as Detective Inspector Wessex,
1 with a very blank face, walked into the office.
Innes looked haggard and exhibited unmistakable
signs of anxiety. Since he had received that dra-
matic telephone message from his chief he had not
spared himself for a moment. The official machin-
ery of Scotland Yard was at work endeavouring to
trace the missing man, but since it had proved im-
possible to find out from where the message had been
sent, the investigation was handicapped at the very
outset. Close inquiries at the Savoy Hotel had
shown that Harley had not been there. Wessex,
who was a thorough artist within his limitations,
had satisfied himself that none of the callers who
had asked for Ormûz Khân, and no one who had
loitered about the lobbies, could possibly have been
even a disguised Paul Harley.
To Inspector Wessex the lines along which Paul
Harley was operating remained a matter of pro-
found amazement and mystification. His inter-
view with Mr. Nicol Brinn had only served to baffle
143


WESSEX GETS BUSY
145
“How did he receive your communication?”
“Oh, it took him fairly between the eyes. There
is no denying that. He knows something."
"What he knows,” said Innes, slowly, “is what
Mr. Harley learned last night, and what he fears is
what has actually befallen the chief.”
Detective Inspector Wessex stood beside the Bur-
mese cabinet, restlessly drumming his fingers upon
its lacquered surface. “I am grateful for one thing,"
he said. “The press has not got hold of this story.”
“They need never get hold of it if you are moder-
ately careful.”
“For several reasons I am going to be more than
moderately careful. Whatever Fire-Tongue may
be, its other name is sudden death! It's a devil of a
business; a perfect nightmare. But,” he paused -
“I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley
to send that parcel of linen to the analyst.”
“The result of the analysis may prove that the
chief was not engaged upon any wild-goose chase.”
“By heavens!” Wessex sprang up, his eyes
brightened, and he reached for his hat, “that gives
me an idea!”
“What is it?”
“The message with the parcel was written up in
paper bearing the letterhead of the late Sir Charles
Abingdon. So Mr. Harley evidently made his first
call there! I'm off, sir! The trail starts from that
house!"


146
FIRE-TONGUE
Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an
expression of despair upon his face, Detective In-
spector Wessex set out. He blamed himself for
wasting time upon the obvious, for concentrating
too closely upon the clue given by Harley's last
words to Innes before leaving the office in Chancery
Lane. It was poor workmanship. He had hoped
to take a short cut, and it had proved, as usual, to be
a long one. Now, as he sat in a laggard cab feeling
that every minute wasted might be a matter of life
and death, he suddenly became conscious of per-
sonal anxiety. He was a courageous, indeed a fear-
less, man, and he was subconsciously surprised to
find himself repeating the words of Nicol Brinn:
“Be careful—be very careful!” With all the ar-
dour of the professional, he longed to find a clue
which should lead him to the heart of the mystery.
Innes had frankly outlined the whole of Paul Har-
ley's case to date, and Detective Inspector Wessex,
although he had not admitted the fact, had never-
theless recognized that from start to finish the thing
did not offer one single line of inquiry which he
would have been capable of following up. That
Paul Harley had found material to work upon, had
somehow picked up a definite clue from this cloudy
maze, earned the envious admiration of the Scot-
land Yard man.
Arrived at his destination, he asked to see Miss
Abingdon, and was shown by the butler into a


WESSEX GETS BUSY
147
charmingly furnished little sitting room which was
deeply impressed with the personality of its dainty
owner. It was essentially and delightfully feminine.
Yet in the decorations and in the arrangement of
the furniture there was a note of independence
which was almost a note of defiance. Phyllis
Abingdon, an appealingly pathetic figure in her
black dress, rose to greet the inspector.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss Abingdon,” he said,
kindly. “My visit does not concern you personally
in any way, but I thought perhaps you might be
able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley.”
Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best
intentions, but even before the words were fully
spoken he realized with a sort of shock that he could
not well have made a worse opening. Phil Abing-
don's eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large. She
stood quite still, twisting his card between her sup-
ple fingers.
“Mr. Harley!” she whispered.
“I did not want to alarm you,” said the detec-
tive, guiltily, “but ” He stopped, at a loss for
words.
"Has something happened to him?"
“I am sorry if I have alarmed you," he assured
her, “but there is some doubt respecting Mr. Har-
ley's present whereabouts. Have you any idea
where he went when he left this house yesterday?”
“Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well


WESSEX GETS BUSY
149
terrible blow. More and more Wessex found himself
to be groping in the dark. And when, in response
to the ringing of the bell, Benson came in and re-
peated what had taken place on the previous day, the
detective's state of mystification grew even more
profound. As a matter of routine rather than with
any hope of learning anything useful, he interviewed
Mrs. Howett; but the statement of the voluble old
lady gave no clue which Wessex could perceive to pos-
sess the slightest value.
Both witnesses having been dismissed, he turned
again to Phil Abingdon, who had been sitting watch-
ing him with a pathetic light of hope in her eyes
throughout his examination of the butler and Mrs.
Howett.
“The next step is clear enough,” he said, brightly.
“I am off to South Lambeth Road. The woman
Jones is the link we are looking for."
“But the link with what, Mr. Wessex?” asked
Phil Abingdon. “What is it all about?-what does
it all mean?”
“The link with Mr. Paul Harley,” replied Wessex.
He moved toward the door.
“But won't you tell me something more before
you go?” said the girl, beseechingly. “I-1-feel
responsible if anything has happened to Mr. Harley.
Please be frank with me. Are you afraid he is in
danger?"
“Well, miss,” replied the detective, haltingly, "hę


150
FIRE-TONGUE
rang up his secretary, Mr. Innes, last night-we don't
know where from—and admitted that he was in a
rather tight corner. I don't believe for a moment
that he is in actual danger, but he probably has"
again he hesitated—“good reasons of his own for
remaining absent at present."
Phil Abingdon looked at him doubtingly. “I am
almost afraid to ask you,” she said in a low voice,
"but-if you hear anything, will you ring me up?"
"I promise to do so."
Chartering a more promising-looking cab than
that in which he had come, Detective Inspector
Wessex proceeded to 236 South Lambeth Road.
He had knocked several times before the door was
opened by the woman to whom the girl Jones had
called on the occasion of Harley's visit.
"I am a police officer," said the detective inspece
tor, “and I have called to see a woman named Jones,
formerly in the employ of Sir Charles Abingdon.”
“Polly's gone,” was the toneless reply.
“Gone? Gone where!"
“She went away last night to a job in the country."
“What time last night?”.
“I can't remember the time. Just after a gentle-
man had called here to see her.”
“Someone from the police?"
“I don't know. She seemed to be very fright,
ened.”
“Were you present when he interviewed her?”


WESSEX GETS BUSY
151
“No.”
“After he had gone, what did Polly do?”
“Sat and cried for about half an hour, then Sidney
came for her.”
“Sidney?”
“Her boy—the latest one."
“Describe Sidney."
“A dark fellow, foreign.”
“French German?"
“No. A sort of Indian, like."
“Indian?” snapped Wessex. “What do you
mean by Indian?"
“Very dark," replied the woman without emotion,
swinging a baby she held to and fro in a methodical
way which the detective found highly irritating.
“You mean a native of India?”
“Yes, I should think so. I never noticed him much.
Polly has so many."
“How long has she known this man?”
“Only a month or so, but she is crazy about him."
“And when he came last night she went away with
him?"
“Yes. She was all ready to go before the other
gentleman called. He must have told her something
which made her think it was all off, and she was
crazy with joy when Sidney turned up. She had all
her things packed, and off she went.”
Experience had taught Detective Inspector Wes-
sex to recognize the truth when he met it, and he did


152
FIRE-TONGUE
not doubt the statement of the woman with the
baby. “Can you give me any idea where this man
Sidney came from?” he asked.
“I am afraid I can't,” replied the listless voice.
“He was in the service of some gentleman in the
country; that's all I know about him.”
“Did Polly leave no address to which letters were
to be forwarded ?”
“No; she said she would write."
“One other point,” said Wessex, and he looked
hard into the woman's face: “What do you know
about Fire-Tongue?”
He was answered by a stare of blank stupidity.
“You heard me?"
“Yes, I heard you, but I don't know what you
are talking about.”
Quick decisions are required from every member
of the Criminal Investigation Department, and De-
tective Inspector Wessex came to one now.
“That will do for the present,” he said, turned,
and ran down the steps to the waiting cab.


CHAPTER XV
NAÎDA
USK was falling that evening. Gaily lighted
cars offering glimpses of women in elaborate
toilets and of their black-coated and white-
shirted cavaliers thronged Piccadilly, bound for
theatre or restaurant. The workaday shutters
were pulled down, and the night life of London had
commenced. The West End was in possession of an
army of pleasure seekers, but Nicol Brinn was not
among their ranks. Wearing his tightly buttoned
dinner jacket, he stood, hands clasped behind him,
staring out of the window as Detective Inspector
Wessex had found him at noon. Only one who knew
him very well could have detected the fact that
anxiety was written upon that Siouxlike face. His
gaze seemed to be directed, not so much upon the
fading prospect of the park, as downward, upon the
moving multitude in the street below. Came a sub-
dued knocking at the door.
“In,” said Nicol Brinn.
Hoskins, the neat manservant, entered. "A
lady to see you, sir.”
Nicol Brinn turned in a flash. For one fleeting
153


NAIDA
155
head, extended both her hands, uttering a subdued
cry of greeting that was almost a sob. She was
dark, with the darkness of the East, but beautiful
with a beauty that was tragic. Her eyes were glori-
ous wells of sadness, seeming to mirror a soul that
had known a hundred ages. Withal she had the
figure of a girl, slender and suppie, possessing the
poetic grace and poetry of movement born only in
the Orient.
“Naida!” breathed Nicol Brinn, huskily.
“Naida!”
His high voice had softened, had grown tremulous.
He extended his hands with a groping movement
The woman laughed shudderingly.
Her cloak lying forgotten upon the carpet, she
advanced toward him.
She wore a robe that was distinctly Oriental
without being in the slightest degree barbaric. Her
skin was strangely fair, and jewels sparkled upon her
fingers. She conjured up dreams of the perfumed
luxury of the East, and was a figure to fire the imagi-
nation. But Nicol Brinn seemed incapable of move-
ment; his body was inert, but his eyes were on fire.
Into the woman's face had come anxiety that was
purely feminine.
“Oh, my big American sweetheart," she whis-
pered, and, approaching him with a sort of timidity,
laid her little hands upon his arm. “Do you still
think I am beautiful?”


NAIDA
157
Her accent was quaint and fascinating, but her
voice was very musical. To the man who knelt at
her feet it was the sweetest music in the world.
“Naîda,” he whispered. “Naida. Even yet I
dare not believe that you are here."
“You knew I would come?”
“How was I to know that you would see my mes-
sage?”
She opened her closed left hand and smoothed out
a scrap of torn paper which she held there. It was
from the "Agony” column of that day's Times
N. November 23, 1913.
N. B. See Telephone Directory.
"I told you long, long ago that I would come if
ever you wanted me."
“Long, long ago," echoed Nicol Brinn. “To
me it has seemed a century; to-night it seems a
day.”
He watched her with a deep and tireless content.
Presently her eyes fell. “Sit here beside me," she
said. “I have not long to be here. Put your arms
round me. I have something to tell you."
He seated himself beside her on the settee, and
held her close. “My Naida!” he breathed softly.
“Ah, no, no!” she entreated. “Do you want to
break my heart?”
He suddenly released her, clenched his big hands,
and stared down at the carpet. “You have broken
mine."


158
FIRE-TONGUE
Impulsively Naîda threw her arms around his neck,
coiling herself up lithely and characteristically be-
side him.
"My big sweetheart,” she whispered, crooningly.
“Don't say it-don't say it."
“I have said it. It is true.”
Turning, fiercely he seized her. “I won't let you
go!” he cried, and there was a strange light in his
eyes. “Before I was helpless, now I am not. This
time you have come to me, and you shall stay."
She shrank away from him terrified, wild-eyed.
“Oh, you forget, you forget!”
"For seven years I have tried to forget. I have
been mad, but to-night I am sane."
“I trusted you, I trusted you!” she moaned.
Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth grimly for a mo-
ment, and then, holding her averted face very close
to his own, he began to speak in a low, monotonous
voice. “For seven years,” he said, “I have tried to
die, because without you I did not care to live. I
have gone into the bad lands of the world and into
the worst spots of those bad lands. Night and day
your eyes have watched me, and I have wakened
from dreams of your kisses and gone out to court
murder. I have earned the reputation of being
something more than human, but I am not. I had
everything that life could give me except you.
Now I have got you, and I am going to keep you."
Naîda began to weep silently. The low, even


NAIDA
159
voice of Nicol Brinn ceased. He could feel her
quivering in his grasp; and, as she sobbed, slowly,
slowly the fierce light faded from his eyes.
“Naida, my Naîda, forgive me,” he whispered.
She raised her face, looking up to him pathetically.
"I came to you, I came to you,” she moaned. “I
promised long ago that I would come. What use
is it, all this? You know, you know! Kill me if
you like. How often have I asked you to kill me. It
would be sweet to die in your arms. But what use
to talk so? You are in great danger or you would not
have asked me to come. If you don't know it, I tell
you—you are in great danger.”
Nicol Brinn released her, stood up, and began
slowly to pace about the room. He deliberately
averted his gaze from the settee. “Something has
happened,” he began, "which has changed every-
thing. Because you are here I know that—someone
else is here."
He was answered by a shuddering sigh, but he did
not glance in the direction of the settee.
“In India I respected what you told me. Because
you were strong, I loved you the more. Here in
England I can no longer respect the accomplice of
assassins.”
“Assassins ? What, is this something new?”
“With a man's religion, however bloodthirsty it
may be, I don't quarrel so long as he sincerely be-
lieves in it. But for private assassination I have no
elsen. Becaule began,


160
FIRE-TONGUE
time and no sympathy.” It was the old Nicol Brinn
who was speaking, coldly and incisively. “That-
something we both know about-ever moved away
from those Indian hills was a possibility I had never
considered. When it was suddenly brought home
to me that you, you, might be here in London, I
almost went mad. But the thing that made me
realize it was a horrible thing, a black, dastardly
thing. See here."
He turned and crossed to where the woman was
crouching, watching him with wide-open, fearful
eyes. He took both her hands and looked grimly
into her face. “For seven years I have walked
around with a silent tongue and a broken heart.
All that is finished. I am going to speak.”
“Ah, no, no!” She was on her feet, her face a
mask of tragedy. “You swore to me, you swore
to me!”
“No oath holds good in the face of murder."
"Is that why you bring me here? Is that what
your message means?”
“My message means that because of-the thing
you know about-I am suspected of the murder."
“You? You?”
“Yes, I, I! Good God! when I realize what your
presence here means, I wish more than ever that I
had succeeded in finding death."
"Please don't say it," came a soft, pleading voice.
“What can I do? What do you want me to do?”


NAIDA
161
"I want you to release me from that vow made
seven years ago.”
Naida uttered a stifled cry. “How is it possible?
You understand that it is not possible.”
Nicol Brinn seized her by the shoulders. “Is it
possible for me to remain silent while men are mur-
dered here in a civilized country?"
"Oh," moaned Naida, "what can I do, what can
I do?”
“Give me permission to speak and stay here.
Leave the rest to me.”
“You know I cannot stay, my Nicol,” she replied,
sadly.
“But," he said with deliberate slowness, “I won't
let you go.”
“You must let me go. Already I have been here
too long."
He threw his arms around her and crushed her
against him fiercely. “Never again," he said.
“Never again.”
She pressed her little hands against his shoulders.
“Listen! Oh, listen!”
“I shall listen to nothing."
“But you must—you must! I want to make you
understand something. This morning I see your
note in the papers. Every day, every day for seven
whole long years, wherever I have been, I have
looked. In the papers of India. Sometimes in the
papers of France, of England."


162
FIRE-TONGUE
"I never even dreamed that you left India," said
Nicol Brinn, hoarsely. “It was through the Times
of India that I said I would communicate with you."
“Once we never left India. Now we do
sometimes. But listen. I prepared to come when
he "
Nicol Brinn's clasp of Naida tightened cruelly.
"Oh, you hurt me!” she moaned. “Please let me
speak. He gave me your name and told me to
bring you!”
“What! What!”
Nicol Brinn dropped his arms and stood, as a man
amazed, watching her.
“Last night there was a meeting outside London."
“You don't want me to believe there are English
members?”
“Yes. There are. Many. But let me go on.
Somehow—somehow I don't understand he finds
you are one- "
“My God!”
“And you are not present last night! Now, do
you understand? So he sends me to tell you that a
car will be waiting at nine o'clock to-night outside
the Cavalry Club. The driver will be a Hindu.
You know what to say. Oh, my Nicol, my Nicol,
go for my sake! You know it all! You are clever.
You can pretend. You can explain you had no
call. If you refuse ”
Nicol Brinn nodded grimly. “I understand!


CHAPTER XVI
NICOL BRINN GOES OUT
ETECTIVE SERGEANT STOKES was a
big, dark, florid man, the word "constable"
> written all over him. Indeed, as Wessex
had complained more than once, the mere sound of
Stokes's footsteps was a danger signal for any crook.
His respect for his immediate superior, the detective
inspector, was not great. The methods of Wessex
savoured too much of the French school to appeal to
one of Stokes's temperament and outlook upon life,
especially upon that phase of life which comes within
the province of the criminal investigator.
Wessex's instructions with regard to Nicol Brinn
had been succinct: “Watch Mr. Brinn's chambers,
make a note of all his visitors, but take no definite steps
respecting him personally without consulting me."
Armed with these instructions, the detective ser-
geant had undertaken his duties, which had proved
more or less tedious up to the time that a fashionably
attired woman of striking but unusual appearance
had inquired of the hall porter upon which floor Mr.
Nicol Brinn resided.
In her manner the detective sergeant had per-
164


NICOL BRINN GOES OUT 165
ceived something furtive. There was a hunted look
in her eyes, too.
When, at the end of some fifteen or twenty min-
utes, she failed to reappear, he determined to take
the initiative himself. By intruding upon this pro-
longed conference he hoped to learn something of
value. Truth to tell, he was no master of finesse,
and had but recently been promoted from an East
End district where prompt physical action was of
more value than subtlety.
As a result, then, he presently found himself in the
presence of the immovable Hoskins; and having
caused his name to be announced, he was requested
to wait in the lobby for one minute. Exactly one
minute had elapsed when he was shown into that
long, lofty room, which of late had been the scene
of strange happenings.
Nicol Brinn was standing before the fireplace,
hands clasped behind him, and a long cigar pro-
truding from the left corner of his mouth. No one
else was present, so far as the detective could see,
but he glanced rapidly about the room in a way which
told the man who was watching that he had ex-
pected to find another present. He looked into the
unfathomable, light blue eyes of Nicol Brinn, and
became conscious of a certain mental confusion.
“Good evening, sir," he said, awkwardly. “I am
acting in the case concerning the disappearance of
Mr. Paul Harley."


166
FIRE-TONGUE
“Yes,” replied Brinn.
“I have been instructed to keep an eye on these
chambers.”
“Yes,” repeated the high voice.
"Well, sir”—again he glanced rapidly about
“I don't want to intrude more than necessary, but a
lady came in here about half an hour ago.”
“Yes," drawled Brinn. “It's possible.”
“It's a fact,” declared the detective sergeant.
“If it isn't troubling you too much, I should like to
know that lady's name. Also, I should like a chat
with her before she leaves.”
“Can't be done,” declared Nicol Brinn. “She
isn't here."
“Then where is she?”
"I couldn't say. She went some time ago.”
Stokes stood squarely before Nicol Brinn-a big,
menacing figure; but he could not detect the slightest
shadow of expression upon the other's impassive feat-
ures. He began to grow angry. He was of that
sanguine temperament which in anger acts hastily.
“Look here, sir,” he said, and his dark face flushed.
“You can't play tricks on me. I've got my duty
to do, and I am going to do it. Ask your visitor
to step in here, or I shall search the premises."
Nicol Brinn replaced his cigar in the right corner
of his mouth: “Detective Sergeant Stokes, I give
you my word that the lady to whom you refer is no
longer in these chambers.”


NICOL BRINN GOES OUT 167
Stokes glared at him angrily. “But there is no
other way out,” he blustered.
“I shall not deal with this matter further,” de-
clared Brinn, coldly. “I may have vices, but I never
was a liar."
“Oh," muttered the detective sergeant, taken
aback by the cold incisiveness of the speaker. “Then
perhaps you will lead the way, as I should like to
take a look around.”
Nicol Brinn spread his feet more widely upon
the hearthrug. “Detective Sergeant Stokes," he
said, "you are not playing the game. Inspec-
tor Wessex passed his word to me that for twenty-
four hours my movements should not be questioned
or interfered with. How is it that I find you
here?”
Stokes thrust his hands in his pockets and coughed
uneasily. “I am not a machine," he replied; "and
I do my own job in my own way.”
“I doubt if Inspector Wessex would approve of
your way.”
“That's my business.”
“Maybe, but it is no affair of yours to interfere
with private affairs of mine, Detective Sergeant.
See here, there is no lady in these chambers. Sec-
ondly, I have an appointment at nine o'clock, and
you are detaining me.”
“What's more," answered Ștokes, who had now
quite lost his temper, “I intend to go on detaining


( 168
FIRE-TONGUE
you until I have searched these chambers and
searched them thoroughly."
Nicol Brinn glanced at his watch. “If I leave in
five minutes, I'll be in good time,” he said. “Follow
me.”
Crossing to the centre section of a massive book-
case, he opened it, and it proved to be a door. So
cunning was the design that the closest scrutiny
must have failed to detect any difference between
the dummy books with which it was decorated, and
the authentic works which filled the shelves to right
and to left of it. Within was a small and cosy study.
In contrast with the museumlike room out of which
it opened, it was furnished in a severely simple
fashion, and one more experienced in the study of
complex humanity than Detective Sergeant Stokes
must have perceived that here the real Nicol Brinn
spent his leisure hours. Above the mantel was a.
life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Nicolas Brinn; and
whereas the great room overlooking Piccadilly was
exotic to a degree, the atmosphere of the study was
markedly American.
Palpably there was no one there. Nor did the
two bedrooms, the kitchen, and the lobby afford
any more satisfactory evidence. Nicol Brinn led
the way back from the lobby, through the small
study, and into the famous room where the Egyptian
priestess smiled eternally. He resumed his place
upon the hearthrug.


NICOL BRINN GOES OUT 169
"Are you satisfied, Detective Sergeant?”
"I am!” Stokes spoke angrily. “While you kept
me talking, she slipped out through that study, and
down into the street.”
"Ah," murmured Nicol Brinn.
“In fact, the whole business looks very suspicious
to me," continued the detective.
“Sorry," drawled Brinn, again consulting his
watch. “The five minutes are up. I must be off.”
“Not until I have spoken to Scotland Yard, sir."
“You wish to speak to Scotland Yard?”
"I do,” said Stokes, grimly.
Nicol Brinn strode to the telephone, which stood
upon a small table almost immediately in front of the
bookcase. The masked door remained ajar.
“You are quite fixed upon detaining me?”
“Quite,” said Stokes, watching him closely.
In one long stride Brinn was through the doorway,
telephone in hand! Before Stokes had time to
move, the door closed violently, in order, no doubt,
to make it shut over the telephone cable which lay
under it!
Detective Sergeant Stokes fell back, gazed wildly
at the false books for a moment, and then, turning,
leaped to the outer door. It was locked!
In the meanwhile, Nicol Brinn, having secured
the door which communicated with the study,
walked out into the lobby where Hoskins was
seated. Hoskins stood up.


170
FIRE-TONGUE
“The lady went, Hoskins?”
“She did, sir."
Nicol Brinn withdrew the key from the door of the
room in which Detective Sergeant Stokes was con-
fined. Stokes began banging wildly upon the panels
from within.
“That row will continue," Nicol Brinn said, coldly;
“perhaps he will shout murder from one of the win-
dows. You have only to say you had no key. I
am going out now. The light coat, Hoskins.”
Hoskins unemotionally handed coat, hat, and cane
to his master and, opening the front door, stood
aside. The sound of a window being raised became
audible from within the locked room.
“Probably,” added Nicol Brinn, "you will be
arrested.”
“Very good, sir," said Hoskins. "Good-night,
sir...."


CHAPTER XVII
WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY
MYOME two hours after Paul Harley's examina-
tion of Jones, the ex-parlourmaid, a shabby
street hawker appeared in the Strand, bearing
a tray containing copies of “Old Moore's Almanac."
He was an ugly-looking fellow with a split lip, and
appeared to have neglected to shave for at least a
week. Nobody appeared to be particularly inter-
ested, and during his slow progression from Welling-
ton Street to the Savoy Hotel he smoked cigarettes
almost continuously. Trade was far from brisk, and
the vendor of prophecies filled in his spare time by
opening car doors, for which menial service he col-
lected one threepenny bit and several sixpences.
This commercial optimist was still haunting the
courtyard of the hotel at a time when a very hand-
some limousine pulled up beside the curb and a
sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had
been in the apartments of Ormûz Khân must have
recognized his excellency's private secretary. Turn-
ing to the chauffeur, a half-caste of some kind, and
ignoring the presence of the prophet who had gener-
ously opened the door, “You will return at eight
171


172
FIRE-TONGUE
o'clock," he said, speaking perfect and cultured Enge
lish, "to take his excellency to High Claybury.
Make a note, now, as I shall be very busy, reminding
me to call at Lower Claybury station for a parcel
which will be awaiting me there."
“Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur, and he touched
his cap as the Hindu walked into the hotel.
The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and
spat reflectively upon the pavement.
Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the
direction of Chancery Lane. But, before reaching
Chancery Lane, he plunged into a maze of courts
with which he was evidently well acquainted. His
bookselling enterprise presently terminated, as it
had commenced, at The Chancery Agency.
Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler
rapidly transformed himself into Paul Harley, and
Paul Harley, laying his watch upon the table before
him, lighted his pipe and indulged in half an hour's
close thinking.
His again electing to focus his attention upon
Ormûz Khân was this time beyond reproach. It
was the course which logic dictated. Until he had
attempted the task earlier in the day, he could not
have supposed it so difficult to trace the country ad-
dress of a well-known figure like that of the Persian.
This address he had determined to learn, and,
having learned it, was also determined to inspect the
premises. But for such a stroke of good luck as that


WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY 173
which had befallen him at the Savoy, he could
scarcely have hoped. His course now lay clearly
before him. And presently, laying his pipe aside,
he took up a telephone which stood upon the dress-
ing table and rang up a garage with which he had an
account.
“Hello, is that you, Mason?” he said. “Have the
racer to meet me at seven o'clock, half-way along
Pall Mall.”
Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance.
Observing every precaution when he left The Chan-
cery Agency, he spent the intervening time at one
of his clubs, from which, having made an early din-
ner, he set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven.
A rakish-looking gray car resembling a giant tor-
pedo was approaching slowly from the direction of
Buckingham Palace. The driver pulled up as Paul
Harley stepped into the road, and following a brief
conversation Harley set out westward, performing a
detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a
little town with which he was only slightly ac-
quainted. No evidence of espionage could he de-
tect, but the note of danger spoke intimately to his
inner consciousness; so that when, the metropolis left
behind, he found himself in the hilly Surrey country-
side, more than once he pulled up, sitting silent for a
while and listening intently. He failed, always, to
detect any sign of pursuit.
The night was tropically brilliant, hot, and still,


174
FIRE-TONGUE
but saving the distant murmur of the city, and ore
dinary comings and goings along the country roads,
there was nothing to account for a growing anxiety
of which he became conscious.
He was in gunshot of Old Claybury church tower,
when the sight of a haystack immediately inside a
meadow gate suggested a likely hiding place for the
racer; and, having run the car under cover, Harley
proceeded on foot to the little railway station. He
approached a porter who leaned in the doorway.
“Could you direct me to the house of his excellency
Ormuz Khân?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir," was the reply. “If you follow the
uphill road on the other side of the station until you
come to the Manor Park-you will see the gates-
and then branch off to the right, taking the road
facing the gates. Hillside—that's the name of the
house is about a quarter of a mile along."
Dusk was beginning to fall and, although the na-
ture of his proposed operations demanded secrecy,
he recognized that every hour was precious. Ac-
cordingly he walked immediately back to the spot
at which he had left the car and, following the por-
ter's directions, drove over the line at the level cross-
ing immediately beyond the station, and proceeded
up a tree-lined road until he found himself skirting
the railing of an extensive tract of park land.
Presently heavy gates appeared in view, and then,
to the right, another lane in which the growing dusk


WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY 175
had painted many shadows. He determined to
drive on until he should find a suitable hiding place.
And at a spot, as he presently learned, not a hundred
yards from Hillside, he discovered an opening in the
hedge which divided the road from a tilled field.
Into this, without hesitation, he turned the racer,
backing in, in order that he might be ready for a
flying start in case of emergency. Once more he set
out on foot.
He proceeded with caution, walking softly close
to the side of the road, and frequently pausing to
listen. Advancing in this fashion, he found himself
standing ere long before an open gateway, and gaz-
ing along a drive which presented a vista of utter
blackness. A faint sound reached his ear-the dis-
tant drone of a powerful engine. A big car was
mounting the slope from Lower Claybury Station.


CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY-CONTINUED
TOT until Harley came within sight of the
house, a low, rambling Jacobean building,
did he attempt to take cover. He scrambled
up a tree and got astride of a wall. A swift survey
by his electric torch of the ground on the other side
revealed a jungle of weeds in either direction.
He uttered an impatient exclamation. He cal-
culated that the car was now within a hundred
yards of the end of the lane. Suddenly came an idea
that was born of emergency. Swarming up the tree
to where its dense foliage began, he perched upon a
stout bough and waited.
Three minutes later came a blaze of light through
the gathering darkness, and the car which he had last
seen at the Savoy was turned into the drive, and
presently glided smoothly past him below.
The interior lights were extinguished, so that he
was unable to discern the occupants. The house
itself was also unilluminated. And when the car
pulled up before the porch, less than ten yards from
his observation post, he could not have recognized
the persons who descended and entered Hillside.
176


WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY 177
Indeed, only by the sound of the closing door did he
know that they had gone in. But two figures were
easily discernible; and he judged them to be those of
Ormûz Khân and his secretary. He waited pa-
tiently, and ere long the limousine was turned in the
little courtyard before the porch and driven out into
the lane again. He did not fail to note that, the
lane regained, the chauffeur headed, not toward
Lower Claybury, but away from it.
He retained his position until the hum of the
motor grew dim in the distance, and was about to
descend when he detected the sound of a second ap-
proaching car! Acutely conscious of danger, he
remained where he was. Almost before the hum of
the retiring limousine had become inaudil.le, a sec-
ond car entered the lane and turned into the drive of
Hillside.
Harley peered eagerly downward, half closing his
eyes in order that he might not be dazzled by the
blaze of the headlight. This was another limousine,
its most notable characteristic being that the blinds
were drawn in all the windows.
On this occasion, when the chauffeur stepped
around and opened the door, only one passenger
alighted. There seemed to be some delay before
he was admitted, but Harley found it impossible
to detect any details of the scene being enacted in
the shadowed porch.
Presently the second car was driven away, pur-


CHAPTER XIX
WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY-CONCLUDED
TE REGAINED the curve of the drive without
meeting any opposition. There, slipping
the pistol into his pocket, he climbed rapidly
up the tree from which he had watched the arrival
of the three cars, climbed over the wall, and dropped
into the weed jungle beyond. He crept stealthily
forward to the gap where he had concealed the racer,
drawing nearer and nearer to the bushes lining the
lane. Only by a patch of greater darkness before him
did he realize that he had reached it. But when the
realization came one word only he uttered: “Gone!”
His car had disappeared!
Despair was alien to his character. A true Eng-
lishman, he never knew when he was beaten. Be-
yond doubt, now, he must accept the presence of
hidden enemies surrounding him, of enemies whose
presence even his trained powers of perception had
been unable to detect. The intensity of the note of
danger which he had recognized now was fully ex-
plained. He grew icily cool, master of his every
faculty. “We shall see!” he muttered, grimly.
Feeling his way into the lane, he set out running


182
FIRE-TONGUE
for the highroad, his footsteps ringing out sharply
upon the dusty way. The highroad gained, he
turned, not to the left, but to the right, ran up the
bank and threw himself flatly down upon it, lying
close to the hedge and watching the entrance to the
lane. Nothing appeared; nothing stirred. He knew
the silence to be illusive; he blamed himself for hav-
ing ventured upon such a quest without acquainting
himself with the geography of the neighbourhood.
Great issues often rest upon a needle point. He
had no idea of the direction or extent of the park land
adjoining the highroad. Nevertheless, further in-
action being out of the question, creeping along the
grassy bank, he began to retreat from the entrance
to the lane. Some ten yards he had progressed in
this fashion when his hidden watchers made their
first mistake.
A faint sound, so faint that only a man in deadly
peril could have detected it, brought him up sharply.
He crouched back against the hedge, looking behind
him. For a long time he failed to observe anything.
Then, against the comparatively high tone of the
dusty road, he saw a silhouette-the head and
shoulders of someone who peered out cautiously.
Still as the trees above him he crouched, watching,
and presently, bent forward, questing to right and
left, questing in a horribly suggestive animal fash-
ion, the entire figure of the man appeared in the
roadway.


WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY 183
As Paul Harley had prayed would be the case, his
pursuers evidently believed that he had turned in
the direction of Lower Claybury. A vague, phan-
tom figure, Harley saw the man wave his arm,
whereupon a second man joined him-a third-and,
finally, a fourth.
Harley clenched his teeth grimly, and as the
ominous quartet began to move toward the left, he
resumed his slow retreat to the right-going ever
farther away, of necessity, from the only centre
with which he was acquainted and from which he
could hope to summon assistance. Finally he
reached a milestone resting almost against the
railings of the Manor Park.
Drawing a deep breath, he sprang upon the mile-
stone, succeeded in grasping the top of the high iron
railings, and hauled himself up bodily.
Praying that the turf might be soft, he jumped.
Fit though he was, and hardened by physical exer-
cise, the impact almost stunned him. He came
down like an acrobat-left foot, right foot, and then
upon his hands, but nevertheless he lay there for a
moment breathless and temporarily numbed by the
shock.
In less than a minute he was on his feet again and
looking alertly about him. Striking into the park
land, turning to the left, and paralleling the high-
road, he presently came out upon the roadway,
along which, under shelter of a straggling hedge, he


184
FIRE-TONGUE
began to double back. In sight of the road dipping
down to Lower Claybury he crossed, forcing his
way through a second hedge thickly sown with
thorns.
Badly torn, but careless of such minor injuries,
he plunged heavily through a turnip field, and, bear-
ing always to the left, came out finally upon the road
leading to the station, and only some fifty yards
from the bottom of the declivity.
A moment he paused, questioning the silence.
He was unwilling to believe that he had outwitted
his pursuers. His nerves were strung to highest
tension, and his strange gift of semiprescience told
him that danger was at least as imminent as ever,
even though he could neither see nor hear his ene.
mies. Therefore, pistol in hand again, he descended
to the foot of the hill.
He remembered having noticed, when he had ap-
plied to the porter for information respecting the
residence of Ormûz Khân, that upon a window ad-
joining the entrance had appeared the words “Sta-
tion Master.” The station master's office, there-
fore, was upon the distant side of the line.
Now came the hardest blow of all. The station
was closed for the night. Nor was there any light
in the signal box. Evidently no other train was
due upon that branch line until some time in the
early morning. The level crossing gate was open,
but before breaking cover he paused a while to con-


WHAT HAPPENED TO HARLEY 185
sider what he should do. Lower Claybury was one
of those stations which have no intimate connection
with any township. The nearest house, so far as
Harley could recall, was fully twenty yards from
the spot at which he stood. Furthermore, the ur-
gency of the case had fired the soul of the professional
investigator.
He made up his mind, and, darting out into the
road, he ran across the line, turned sharply, and did
not pause until he stood before the station master's
window. Then his quick wits were put to their ul-
timate test.
Right, left, it seemed from all about him, came
swiftly pattering footsteps! Instantly he divined
the truth. Losing his tracks upon the highroad
above, a section of his pursuers had surrounded the
station, believing that he would head for it in re-
treat.
Paul Harley whipped off his coat in a flash, and
using it as a ram, smashed the window. He reached
up, found the catch, and opened the sash. In ten
seconds he was in the room, and a great clatter
told him that he had overturned some piece of
furniture.
Disentangling his coat, he sought and found the
electric torch. He pressed the button. No light
came. It was broken! He drew a hissing breath,
and began to grope about the little room. At last
his hand touched the telephone, and, taking it up:


186
FIRE-TONGUE
“Hello!” he said. “Hello!”
“Yes,” came the voice of the operator—“what
number?”
“City 8951. Police business! Urgent!"
One, two, three seconds elapsed, four, five, six.
“Hello!” came the voice of Innes.
“That you, Innes?” said Harley. And, inter-
rupting the other's reply: "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 "
Someone leaped in at the broken window behind
the speaker. Resting the telephone upon the table,
where he had found it, Harley reached into his hip
pocket and snapped out his automatic.
Dimly he could hear Innes speaking. He half-
turned, raised the pistol, and knew a sudden intense
pain at the back of his skull. A thousand lights
seemed suddenly to split the darkness. He felt him
self sinking into an apparently bottomless pit.


CHAPTER XX
CONFLICTING CLUES
NY news, Wessex?” asked Innes, eagerly,
A starting up from his chair as the inspector
entered the office.
Wessex shook his head, and sitting down took
out and lighted a cigarette.
“News of a sort,” he replied, slowly, “but nothing
of any value, I am afraid. My assistant, Stokes, has
distinguished himself.”
"In what way?” asked Innes, dully, dropping
back into his chair.
These were trying days for the indefatigable
secretary. Believing that some clue of importance
might come to light at any hour of the day or night
he remained at the chambers in Chancery Lane,
sleeping nightly in the spare room.
“Well,” continued the inspector, “I had detailed
him to watch Nicol Brinn, but my explicit instruc-
tions were that Nicol Brinn was not to be molested
in any way.”
“What happened?”.
“To-night Nicol Brinn had a visitor-possibly
a valuable witness. Stokes, like an idiot, allowed
187


188
FIRE-TONGUE
her to slip through his fingers and tried to arrest
Brinn!”
“What? Arrest him!” cried Innes.
“Precisely. But I rather fancy,” added the
inspector, grimly, “that Mr. Stokes will think twice
before taking leaps like that in the dark again.”
“You say he tried to arrest him. What do you
mean by that?”
"I mean that Nicol Brinn, leaving Stokes locked
in his chambers, went out and has completely dis-
appeared!”
“But the woman?”
“Ah, the woman! There's the rub. If he had
lain low and followed the woman, all might have been
well. But who she was, where she came from, and
where she has gone, we have no idea.”
“Nicol Brinn must have been desperate to adopt
such measures?"
Detective Inspector Wessex nodded.
"I quite agree with you.”
“He evidently had an appointment of such
urgency that he could permit nothing to stand in
his way.”
"He is a very clever man, Mr. Innes. He re.
moved the telephone from the room in which he had
locked Stokes, so that my blundering assistant was
detained for nearly fifteen minutes—detained, in
fact, until his cries from the window attracted the
attention of a passing constable!”


CONFLICTING CLUES 189
“Nicol Brinn's man did not release him?”.
"No, he said he had no key."
“What happened?”.
“Stokes wanted to detain the servant, whose name
is Hoskins, but I simply wouldn't hear of it. I am
a poor man, but I would cheerfully give fifty pounds
to know where Nicol Brinn is at this moment.”
Innes stood up restlessly and began to drum his
fingers upon the table edge. Presently he looked up,
and:
“There's a shadow of hope," he said. “Rector-
you know Rector?—had been detailed by the chief
to cover the activities of Nicol Brinn. He has not
reported to me so far to-night.”
"You mean that he may be following him?” cried
Wessex.
"It is quite possible-following either Nicol Brinn
or the woman.'
“My God, I hope you're right!-even though it
makes the Criminal Investigation Department look
a bit silly.”
“Then,” continued Innes, “there is something
else which you should know. I heard to-day from a
garage, with which Mr. Harley does business, that he
hired a racing car last night. He has often used it
before. It met him half-way along Pall Mall at
seven o'clock, and he drove away in it in the direc-
tion of Trafalgar Square."
“Alone?"


190
FIRE-TONGUE
“Yes, unfortunately."
“Toward Trafalgar Square," murmured Wessex.
“Ah,” said Innes, shaking his head, “that clue is
of no importance. Under the circumstances the
chief would be much more likely to head away from
his objective than toward it."
"Quite," murmured Wessex. “I agree with you.
But what's this?"
The telephone bell was ringing, and as Innes
eagerly took up the receiver:
“Yes, yes, Mr. Innes speaking,” he said, quickly.
“Is that you, Rector?”
The voice of Rector, one of Paul Harley's assist-
ants, answered him over the wire:
“I am speaking from Victoria Station, Mr.
Innes.”
“Yes!” said Innes. “Go ahead.”
“A very odd-looking woman visited Mr. Nicol
Brinn's chambers this evening. She was beautifully
dressed, but wore the collar of her fur coat turned up
about her face, so that it was difficult to see her.
But somehow I think she was an Oriental.”
“An Oriental!” exclaimed Innes.
“I waited for her to come out,” Rector continued.
“She had arrived in a cab, which was waiting, and I
learned from the man that he had picked her up at
Victoria Station.”
“Yes?"
“She came out some time later in rather a hurry.


CONFLICTING CLUES 191
In fact, I think there was no doubt that she was
frightened. By this time I had another cab wait-
vas
was
ing."
“And where did she go?” asked Innes.
“Back to Victoria Station.”
“Yes! Go on!”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Innes, my story does not go
:nuch further. I wasted very little time, you may
be sure. But although no train had left from the
South Eastern station, which she had entered, there
wa: no sign of her anywhere. So that I can only
suppose she ran through to the Brighton side, or
possibly out to a car, which may have been waiting
for her somewhere.”
“Is that all?” asked Innes, gloomily.
"That's all, Mr. Innes. But I thought I would
report it.”
“Quite right, Rector; you could do no more. Did
you see anything of Detective Sergeant Stokes be-
fore you left Piccadilly?”
“I did,” replied the other. “He also was in-
tensely interested in Nicol Brinn's visitor. And
about five minutes before she came out he went up-
te
stairs.”
"Oh, I see. She came out almost immediately
after Stokes had gone up?"
“Yes."
“Very well, Rector. Return to Piccadilly, and
report to me as soon as possible.”


192
FIRE-TONGUE
Innes hung up the receiver.
“Did you follow, Wessex?” he said. “Stokes
was on the right track, but made a bad blunder,
You see, his appearance led to the woman's re-
treat."
“He explained that to me,” returned the inspec-
tor, gloomily. “She got out by another door as he
came in. Oh! a pretty mess he has made of it. If
he and Rector had been coöperating, they could
have covered her movements perfectly.”
“There is no use crying over spilt milk,” returned
Innes. He glanced significantly in the inspector's
direction. “Miss Abingdon has rung up practically
every hour all day,” he said.
Wessex nodded his head.
“I'm a married man myself,” he replied, “and
happily married, too. But if you had seen the look
in her eyes when I told her that Mr. Harley had
disappeared, I believe you would have envied him.”
“Yes," murmured Innes. “They haven't known
each other long, but I should say from what little
I have seen of them that she cares too much for her
peace of mind.” He stared hard at the inspector.
“I think it will break her heart if anything has hap-
pened to the chief. The sound of her voice over the
telephone brings a lump into my throat, Wessex.
She rang up an hour ago. She will ring up again.”
“Yet I never thought he was a marrying man,”.
muttered the inspector.


CONFLICTING CLUES 193
“Neither did I,” returned Innes, smiling sadly,
“But even he can be forgiven for changing his mind
in the case of Phil Abingdon.”
"Ah," said the inspector. “I am not sorry to
know that he is human like the rest of us." His ex-
pression grew retrospective, and: “I can't make
out how the garage you were speaking about didn't
report that matter before,” he added.
"Well, you see,” explained Innes, “they were
used to the chief making long journeys.”
“Long journeys," muttered the inspector. “Did
he make a long journey! I wonder, I wonder.”


CHAPTER XXI
THE SEVENTH KAMA
S NICOL BRINN strolled out from the door be-
low 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 di-
rection 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 saunt-
ered along Piccadilly as an idle man might do. He
knew that he had ample time to keep his appoint-
ment, 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
194


THE SEVENTH KAMA
195
which could avail him to-night; and he knew that he
must show himself a master of fence.
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 hesi-
tated, 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.


THE SEVENTH KAMA
197
heard the rustling of leaves, and divined that they
were proceeding along a drive.
He replaced the paper in the rack, and took out
his watch. Consulting it, he returned it to his
pocket as the car stopped and the light went out.
The door, which, with its fellow, Nicol Brinn had
discovered to be locked, was opened by the Oriental
chauffeur, and Brinn descended upon the steps of a
shadowed porch. The house door was open, and
although there was no light within:
“Come this way,” said a voice, speaking out of
the darkness.
Nicol Brinn entered a hallway the atmosphere
of which seemed to be very hot.
“Allow me to take your hat and coat," continued
the voice.
He was relieved of these, guided along a dark
passage; and presently, an inner door being opened,
he found himself in a small, barely furnished room
where one shaded lamp burned upon a large writing
table.
His conductor, who did not enter, closed the door
quietly, and Nicol Brinn found himself looking into
the smiling face of a Hindu gentleman who sat at
the table.
The room was decorated with queer-looking In-
dian carvings, pictures upon silk, and other products
of Eastern craftsmanship. The table and the sev-
eral chairs were Oriental in character, but the are


198
FIRE-TONGUE
ticles upon the table were very European and
businesslike in appearance. Furthermore, the Hindu
gentleman, who wore correct evening dress, might
have been the representative of an Eastern banking
house, as indeed he happened to be, amongst other
things.
"Good evening,” he said, speaking perfect Eng-
lish "won't you sit down?”
He pointed with a pen which he was holding in
the direction of a heavily carved chair which stood
near the table. Nicol Brinn sat down, regarding
the speaker with lack-lustre eyes.
“A query has arisen respecting your fraternal
rights," continued the Hindu. “Am I to under-
stand that you claim to belong to the Seventh
Kama?”
“Certainly,” replied Brinn in a toneless voice.
The Hindu drew his cuff back from a slender
yellow wrist, revealing a curious mark which ap-
peared to be branded upon the flesh. It was in the
form of a torch or flambeau surmounted by a tongue
of flame. He raised his black brows, smiling sig-
nificantly.
Nicol Brinn stood up, removing his tight dinner
jacket. Then, rolling back his sleeve from a lean,
sinuous forearm, he extended the powerful member,
having his fist tightly clenched.
Upon the inside of his arm, just above the elbow,
an identical mark had been branded!


THE SEVENTH KAMA
199
The Hindu stood up and saluted Nicol Brinn in
a peculiar manner. That is to say, he touched the
second finger of his right hand with the tip of his
tongue, and then laid the finger upon his forehead,
at the same time bowing deeply.
Nicol Brinn repeated the salutation, and quietly
put his coat on.
“We greet you,” said the Hindu. “I am Rama
Dass of the Bengal Lodge. Have you Hindustani?”
“No.”
“Where were you initiated ?”
“At Moon Ali Lane."
“Ah!” exclaimed the Hindu. “I see it all. In
Bombay?”
"In Bombay."
“When, and by whom, may I ask?”
“By Râhmâni, November 23, 1913."
“Strange," murmured Rama Dass. “Brother
Rûhmâni died in that year; which accounts for
our having lost touch with you. What is your
grade?"
“The fifth.”
“You have not proceeded far, brother. How do
you come to be unacquainted with our presence in
England?”
"I cannot say.”
“What work has been allotted to you?”
“None.”
“Never?"


200
FIRE-TONGUE
"Never."
“More and more strange," murmured the Hins
du, watching Nicol Brinn through the gold-rimmed
spectacles which he wore. “I have only known one
other case. Such cases are dangerous, brother."
“No blame attaches to me,” replied Nicol Brinn.
“I have not said so," returned Rama Dass. “But
in the Seventh Kama all brothers must work. A
thousand lives are as nothing so the Fire lives. We
had thought our information perfect, but only by
accident did we learn of your existence."
"Indeed,” murmured Nicol Brinn, coldly.
Not even this smiling Hindu gentleman, whose
smile concealed so much, could read any meaning
in those lack-lustre eyes, nor detect any emotion in
that high, cool voice.
“A document was found, and in this it was re-
corded that you bore upon your arm the sigil of the
Seventh Kama.”
“'Tis Fire that moves the grains of dust," muru
mured Nicol Brinn, tonelessly, "which one day make
a mountain for the gods.”
Rama Dass stood up at once and repeated his
strange gesture of salutation, which Nicol Brinn re-
turned ceremoniously; and resumed his seat at the
table.
"You are advanced beyond your grade, brother,"
he said. “You are worthy the next step. Do you
wish to take it?”


THE SEVENTH KAMA
201
00
"Every little drop swells the ocean,” returned
Nicol Brinn.
“You speak well,” the Hindu said. “We have
here your complete record. It shall not be con-
sulted. To do so were unnecessary. We are satis-
fied. We regret only that one so happily circum-
stanced to promote the coming of the Fire should
have been lost sight of. Last night there were
three promotions and several rejections. You were
expected.”
“But I was not summoned.”
"No," murmured Rama Dass. “We had learned
of you as I have said. However, great honour re-
sults. You will be received alone. Do you desire
to advance?"
“No. Give me time.”
Rama Dass again performed the strange saluta-
tion, and again Nicol Brinn returned it.
“Wisdom is a potent wine,” said the latter, gravely.
“We respect your decision.”
The Hindu rang a little silver bell upon his table,
and the double doors which occupied one end of the
small room opened silently, revealing a large shadowy
apartment beyond.
Rama Dass stood up, crossed the room, and stand-
ing just outside the open doors, beckoned to Nicol
Brinn to advance.
“There is no fear,” he said, in a queer, chanting
tone.


202
FIRE-TONGUE
“There is no fear,” repeated Nicol Brinn.
“There is no love."
“There is no love."
“There is no death."
“There is no death."
“Fire alone is eternal.”
"Fire alone is eternal.”
As he pronounced those words Nicol Brinn crossed
the threshold of the dark room, and the double
doors closed silently behind him.


206
FIRE-TONGUE
He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol
Brinn automatically acknowledged. Then, with-
out 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 head-
lights of the waiting car shining on a pillar of the
porch.
A minute later he was seated again in the shut-
tered 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 fore-
head, 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


208
FIKE-TONGUE
"Certainly, sir,” he returned, without hesitation;
and stepping down upon the pavement he walked
into the club.
Less than two minutes afterward a highly in-
furiated military gentleman—who, as it chanced,
had never even heard of the distinguished American
traveller-came running out hatless into Piccadilly,
holding a crumpled visiting card in his hand. The
card, which his chauffeur had given him in the midst
of a thrilling game, read as follows:
MR. NICOL BRINN
Raleigh House,
PICCADILLY, W. I.
And written in pencil beneath the name appeared
the following:
Borrowed your Rolls. Urgent.
Will explain to-morrow. Apolo-
gize. N. B.


CHAPTER XXIII
PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR
N THE following morning the card of His
Excellency Ormûz Khân was brought to
Phil Abingdon in the charming little room
which Mrs. McMurdoch had allotted to her for a
private sanctum during the period of her stay under
this hospitable roof.
“Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at the maid in
a startled way. “I suppose I must see him. Will
you ask him to come in, please?”
A few moments later Ormûz Khân entered. He
wore faultless morning dress, too faultless; so
devoid of any flaw or crease as to have lost its
masculine character. In his buttonhole was a
hyacinth, and in one slender ivory hand he
carried a huge bunch of pink roses, which, bow-
ing deeply, he presented to the embarrassed
girl.
“Dare I venture," he said in his musical voice,
bending deeply over her extended hand, “to ask
you to accept these flowers? It would honour me.
Pray do not refuse.”
“Your excellency is very kind," she replied, pain-
209


210
FIRE-TONGUE
--
-
-
---
-
-
fully conscious of acute nervousness. “It is more
than good of you."
"It is good of you to grant me so much pleasure,”
he returned, sinking gracefully upon a settee, as
Phil Abingdon resumed her seat. “Condolences
are meaningless. Why should I offer them to one
of your acute perceptions? But you know—"
the long, magnetic eyes regarded her fixedly—"you
know what is in my heart.”
Phil Abingdon bit her lip, merely nodding in re-
ply.
“Let us then try to forget, if only for a while,"
said Ormûz Khân. “I could show you so easily, if
you would consent to allow me, that those we love
never leave us.”
The spell of his haunting voice was beginning to
have its effect. Phil Abingdon found herself fight-
ing against something which at once repelled and
attracted her. She had experienced this unusual
attraction before, and this was not the first time
that she had combated it. But whereas formerly
she had more or less resigned herself to the strange
magic which lay in the voice and in the eyes of
Ormûz Khân, this morning there was something
within her which rebelled fiercely against the Orient-
al seductiveness of his manner.
She recognized that a hot flush had covered her
cheeks. For the image of Paul Harley, bronzed,
gray-eyed, and reproachful, had appeared before


PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR
21/
her mind's eye, and she knew why her resentment
of the Persian's charm of manner had suddenly
grown so intense. Yet she was not wholly immune
from it, for:
“Does Your Excellency really mean that?" she
whispered.
A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile,
but rather that of a beautiful woman than of a man.
. “As you of the West," he said, “have advanced
step by step, ever upward in the mechanical sciences,
we of the East have advanced also step by step in
other and greater sciences.”
“Certainly,” she admitted, "you have spoken of
such things before.”
"I speak of things which I know. From that
hour when you entered upon your first Kama, back
in the dawn of time, until now, those within the
ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the
ages have been beside you, at times unseen by the
world, at times unseen by you, veiled by the mist
which men call death, but which is no more than a
curtain behind which we sometimes step for a while.
In the East we have learned to raise that curtain;
in the West are triflers who make like claims, but
whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is— "And
he snapped his fingers contemptuously.
The strange personality of the man was having its
effect. Phil Abingdon's eyes were widely open, and
she was hanging upon his words. Underneath the


212
FIRE-TONGUE
soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spiritma
spirit which had known few obstacles. The world
of womanhood could have produced no more diffi-
cult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized,
and became conscious of a sense of helplessness,
that under certain conditions she would be as a
child in the hands of this Persian mystic, whose
weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body,
nor even her mind, but her soul, whose voice touched
unfamiliar chords within her-chords which had
never responded to any other human voice.
It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep
terror underlay it.
“Your Excellency almost frightens me," she
whispered. “Yet I do not doubt that you speak of
what you know."
"It is so," he returned, gravely. “At any hour,
day or night, if you care to make the request, I
shall be happy to prove my words. But,” he low-
ered his dark lashes and then raised them again, “the
real object of my visit is concerned with more
material things."
“Indeed,” said Phil Abingdon, and whether be-
cause of the words of Ormûz Khân, or because of
some bond of telepathy which he had established
between them, she immediately found herself to be
thinking of Paul Harley.
“I bring you a message,” he continued, “from a
friend.”


PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR 213
With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched
him.
“From,” she began—but her lips would not frame
the name.
“From Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, inclining his
head gravely.
“Oh! tell me, tell me!”
“I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr.
Harley feels that his absence may have distressed
you."
“Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly.
“But in pursuit of a certain matter which is
known to you, he has found it necessary in the in-
terests of his safety to remain out of London for a
while."
"Oh,” Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. “Oh,
Your Excellency, how glad I am to hear that he is
safe!”
The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, un-
emotionally, noting that the flush had faded from
her face, leaving it very pale, and noting also the
expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of
her sweet lips.
“He is my guest,” continued Ormûz Khân, “my
honoured guest.”
“He is with you?” exclaimed Phil, almost in-
credulously.
“With me, at my home in Surrey. In me he
found a natural ally, since my concern was as great


214
FIRE-TONGUE
as his own. I do not conceal from you, Miss Abing-
don, that he is danger.”
“In danger?" she whispered.
"It is true, but beneath my roof he is safe. There
is a matter of vital urgency, however, in which you
can assist him.”
“I?” she exclaimed.
“No one but you.” Ormûz Khân raised his
slender hand gracefully. “I beg you, do not misa
understand me. In the first place, would Mr. Har-
ley have asked you to visit him at my home, if he
had not been well assured that you could do so with
propriety? In the second place, should I, who re-
spect you more deeply than any woman in the
world, consent to your coming unchaperoned? Miss
Abingdon, you know me better. I beg of you in
Mr. Harley's name and in my own, prevail upon
Mrs. McMurdoch to accept the invitation which I
bring to lunch with me at Hillside, my Surrey
home.”
He spoke with the deep respect of a courtier
addressing his queen. His low musical voice held
a note that was almost a note of adoration. Phil
Abingdon withdrew her gaze from the handsome
ivory face, and strove for mental composure before
replying.
Subtly, insidiously, the man had cast his spell
upon her. Of this she was well aware. In other
words, her thoughts were not entirely her own, but


CHAPTER XXIV
THE SCREEN
THE SCREEN OF GOLD
GOLD
AUL Harley raised his aching head and
looked wearily about him. At first, as might
1. be expected, he thought that he was dreaming.
He lay upon a low divan and could only suppose
that he had been transported to India.
Slowly, painfully, memory reasserted itself and
he realized that he had been rendered unconscious
by the blow of a sandbag or some similar weapon
while telephoning from the station master's office at
Lower Claybury. How long a time had elapsed
since that moment he was unable to judge, for his
watch had been removed from his pocket. He
stared about him with a sort of fearful interest. He
lay in a small, barely furnished room, having white
distempered walls, wholly undecorated. Its few
appointments were Oriental, and the only window
which it boasted was set so high as to be well out of
reach. Moreover, it was iron-barred, and at the
moment admitted no light, whether because it did
not communicate with the outer world, or because
night was fallen, he was unable to tell.
There were two doors in the room, one of very
217


218
FIRE-TONGUE
massive construction, and the other a smaller one.
The place was dimly lighted by a brass lantern
which hung from the ceiling. Harley stood up,
staggered slightly, and then sat down again.
“My God,” he groaned and raised his hand to his
head.
For a few moments he remained seated, victim of
a deadly nausea. Then, clenching his jaws grimly,
again he stood up, and this time succeeded in reach-
ing the heavy door.
As he had supposed, it was firmly locked, and a
glance was sufficient to show him that his unaided
effort could never force it. He turned his attention
to the smaller door, which opened at his touch, re-
vealing a sleeping apartment not unlike a monk's
cell, adjoining which was a tiny bathroom. Neither
rooms boasted windows, both being lighted by
brass lanterns.
Harley examined them and their appointments
with the utmost care, and then returned again to the
outer room, one feature of which, and quite the most
remarkable, he had reserved for special investiga-
tion.
This was a massive screen of gilded iron scroll
work, which occupied nearly the whole of one end of
the room. Beyond the screen hung a violet-coloured
curtain of Oriental fabric; but so closely woven
was the metal design that although he could touch
this curtain with his finger at certain points, it


THE SCREEN OF GOLD 219
proved impossible for him to move it aside in any
way.
He noted that its lower fringe did not quite touch
the floor. By stooping down, he could see a few
feet into some room beyond. It was in darkness,
however, and beyond the fact that it was carpeted
with a rich Persian rug, he learned but little from
his scrutiny. The gilded screen was solid and im-
movable.
Nodding his head grimly, Harley felt in his pock-
ets for pipe and pouch, wondering if these, too,
had been taken from him. They had not, however,
and the first nausea of his awakening having passed,
he filled and lighted his briar and dropped down
upon the divan to consider his position.
That it was fairly desperate was a fact he was un-
able to hide from himself, but at least he was still
alive, which was a matter at once for congratulation
and surprise.
He had noticed before, in raising his hand to his
head, that his forehead felt cold and wet, and now,
considering the matter closely, he came to the con-
clusion that an attempt had been made to aid his
recovery, by some person or persons who must have
retired at the moment that he had shown signs of
returning consciousness.
His salvation, then, was not accidental but de-
liberate. He wondered what awaited him and why
his life had been spared.


220
FIRE-TONGUE
That he had walked blindly into a trap prepared
for him by that mysterious personality known as
Fire-Tongue, he no longer could doubt. Intense
anxiety and an egotistical faith in his own acumen
had led him to underestimate the cleverness of his
enemies, a vice from which ordinarily he was free.
From what hour they had taken a leading interest
in his movements, he would probably never know,
but that they had detected Paul Harley beneath the
vendor of “Old Moore's Almanac" was certain enough.
What a fool he had been!
He reproached himself bitterly. Ordinary com-
mon sense should have told him that the Hindu
secretary had given those instructions to the chauf-
feur in the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel for his,
Paul Harley's, special benefit. It was palpable
enough now. He wondered how he had ever fallen
into such a trap, and biting savagely upon his pipe,
he strove to imagine what ordeal lay ahead of
him.
So his thoughts ran, drifting from his personal
danger, which he knew to be great, to other matters,
which he dreaded to consider, because they meant
far more to him than his own life. Upon these
bitter reflections a slight sound intruded, the first
which had disturbed the stillness about him since
the moment of his awakening.
Someone had entered the room beyond the gilded
screen, and now a faint light showed beneath the


THE SCREEN OF GOLD 221
fringe of the curtain. Paul Harley sat quite still,
smoking and watching.
He had learned to face the inevitable with com-
posure, and now, apprehending the worst, he waited,
puffing at his pipe. Presently he detected the sound
of someone crossing the room toward him, or rather
toward the screen. He lay back against the mat-
tress which formed the back of the divan, and watched
the gap below the curtain.
Suddenly he perceived a pair of glossy black boots.
Their wearer was evidently standing quite near the
screen, possibly listening. Harley had an idea that
some second person stood immediately behind the
first. Of this idea he presently had confirmation.
He was gripping the stem of his pipe very tightly
and any one who could have seen him sitting there
must have perceived that although his face wore
an unusual pallor, he was composed and entirely
master of himself.
A voice uttered his name:
“Mr. Paul Harley."
He could not be sure, but he thought it was the
voice of Ormûz Khân's secretary. He drew his
pipe from between his teeth, and:
“Yes, what do you want with me?” he asked.
“Your attention, Mr. Harley, for a few moments,
if you feel sufficiently recovered.”
“Pray proceed," said Harley.
Of the presence of a second person beyond the


CHAPTER XXV
AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR
COU have been guilty of a series of unfor-
tunate mistakes, Mr. Harley,” continued
the speaker. “Notably, you have relied
upon the clumsy device of disguise. To the or-
ganization in which you have chosen to interest
yourself, this has provided some mild amusement.
Your pedlar of almanacs was a clever impersona-
tion, but fortunately your appearance at the Sa-
voy had been anticipated, and no one was de-
ceived.”
Paul Harley did not reply. He concluded, quite
correctly, that the organization had failed to detect
himself in the person of the nervous cobbler. He
drew courage from this deduction. Fire-Tongue
was not omniscient.
"It is possible,” continued the unseen speaker,
in whom Harley had now definitely recognized
Ormûz Khân's secretary, “that you recently over-
heard a resolution respecting yourself. Your death,
in fact, had been determined upon. Life and death
being synonymous, the philosopher contemplates
either with equanimity.”
223


224
FIRE-TONGUE
“I am contemplating the latter with equanimity
at the moment,” said Harley, dryly.
“The brave man does so," the Hindu continued,
smoothly. “The world only seems to grow older;
its youth is really eternal, but as age succeeds age,
new creeds must take the place of the old ones
which are burned out. Fire, Mr. Harley, sweeps
everything from its path irresistibly. You have
dared to stand in the path of a fiery dawn; therefore,
like all specks of dust which clog the wheels of prog-
ress, you must be brushed aside.”
Harley nodded grimly, watching a ring of smoke
floating slowly upward.
“It is a little thing to those who know the truth,”
the speaker resumed. “To the purblind laws of the
West it may seem a great thing. We seek in Rome
to do as Rome does. We judge every man as we
find him. Therefore, recognizing that your total
disappearance might compromise our movements
in the near future, we have decided to offer you
an alternative. This offer is based upon the British
character. Where the oath of some men is a
thing of smoke, the word of honour of an English-
man we are prepared to accept."
“Many thanks," murmured Harley. “On be
half of Great Britain I accept the compliment.”
“We have such faith in the completeness of our
plans, and in the nearness of the hour of triumph,
that if you will pledge yourself to silence, in writing,


226
FIRE-TONGUE
every conceivable angle. It was certainly desperate
enough, and after a time he rose with a weary sigh,
and made a second and more detailed examination
of the several apartments.
It availed him nothing, but one point he definitely
established. Escape was impossible, failing out-
side assistance. A certain coldness in the atmos.
phere, which was perceptible immediately beneath
the barred window, led him to believe that this com-
municated with the outer air.
He was disposed to think that his unconsciousness
had lasted less than an hour, and that it was still
dark without. He was full of distrust. He no
longer believed his immediate death to have been
decided upon. For some reason it would seem
that the group wished him to live, at any rate,
temporarily. But now a complete theory touching
the death of Sir Charles Abingdon had presented it-
self to his mind. Knowing little, but suspecting
much of the resources of Fire-Tongue, he endeavoured
to avoid contact with anything in the place.
Night attire was provided in the sleeping cham-
ber, but he did not avail himself of this hospitality.
Absolute silence reigned about him. Yet so im-
mutable are Nature's laws, that presently Paul Har-
ley sank back upon the mattresses, and fell asleep.
He awoke, acutely uncomfortable and ill-rested.
He found a shaft of light streaming into the room,
and casting shadows of the iron bars upon the op-


AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR 227
posite wall. The brass lantern still burned above
him, and the silence remained complete as when he
had fallen asleep. He stood up yawning and stretch-
ing himself.
At least, it was good to be still alive. He was
vaguely conscious of the fact that he had been
dreaming of Phil Abingdon, and suppressing a sigh,
he clenched his teeth grimly and entered the little
bathroom. There proved to be a plentiful supply
of hot and cold water. At this he sniffed suspi-
ciously, but at last:
“I'll risk it,” he muttered.
He undressed and revelled in the joy of a hot
bath, concluding with a cold plunge. A razor and
excellent toilet requisites were set upon the dressing
table, and whilst his imagination whispered that
the soap might be poisoned and the razor possess a
septic blade, he shaved, and having shaved, lighted
his pipe and redressed himself at leisure.
He had nearly completed his toilet when a slight
sound in the outer room arrested his attention. He
turned sharply, stepping through the doorway.
A low carved table, the only one which the apart-
ment boasted, displayed an excellent English break-
fast laid upon a spotless cover.
"Ah,” he murmured, and by the sight was men-
tally translated to that celebrated apartment of the
palace at Versailles, where Louis XIV and his
notorious favourite once were accustomed to dine,
O


AN ENGLISHMAN'S HONOUR 231
drank water from the tap in the bathroom. His
plan was now nearing completion. Only one point
remained doubtful.
At noon the voice again addressed him from be-
hind the gilded screen:
“Mr. Paul Harley?”
“Yes?”
“Your last opportunity has come. For your own
future or for that of the world you seem to care little
or nothing. Are you still determined to oppose our
wishes?”
"I am."
“You have yet an hour. Your final decision will
be demanded of you at the end of that time.”
Faint sounds of withdrawal followed these words,
and Harley suddenly discovered himself to be very
cold. The note of danger had touched him. For
long it had been silent. Now it clamoured insistently.
He knew beyond all doubt that he was approaching
a crisis in his life. At its nature he could not even
guess.
He began to pace the room nervously, listening
for he knew not what. His mind was filled with
vague imaginings; when at last came an overture
to the grim test to be imposed upon him.
A slight metallic sound drew his glance in the di-
rection of the gilded screen. A sliding door of thick
plate glass had been closed behind it, filling the
space between the metal work and the curtain.


232
FIRE-TONGUE
Then the light in the brass lantern became ex-
tinguished.
Standing rigidly, fists clenched, Paul Harley
watched the curtain. And as he watched, slowly
it was drawn aside. He found himself looking into
a long room which appeared to be practically un-
furnished.
The floor was spread with rugs and at the farther
end folding doors had been opened, so that he could
see into a second room, most elegantly appointed in
Persian fashion. Here were silver lanterns, and many
silken cushions, out of which, as from a sea of colour,
arose slender pillars, the scheme possessing an air
of exotic luxury peculiarly Oriental.
Seated in a carved chair over which a leopard
skin had been thrown, and talking earnestly to some
invisible companion, whose conversation seemed
wholly to enthrall her, was Phil Abingdon!


CHAPTER XXVI
THE ORCHID OF SLEEP
TY GOD!” cried Innes, “here is proof that
the chief was right!”
I Wessex nodded in silent agreement. On
the table lay the report of Merton, the analyst, con-
cerning the stains upon the serviette which Harley
had sent from the house of the late Sir Charles
Abingdon. Briefly, it stated that the serviette had
been sprinkled with some essential oil, the exact
character of which Merton had found himself un-
able to determine, its perfume, if it ever possessed
any, having disappeared. And the minute quan-
tity obtainable from the linen rendered ordinary
tests difficult to apply. The analyst's report, how-
ever, concluded as follows:
“Mr. Harley, having foreseen these difficulties,
and having apparently suspected that the oil was
of Oriental origin, recommended me, in the note
which he enclosed with the serviette, to confer with
Dr. Warwick Grey. I send a copy of a highly in-
teresting letter which I have received from Doctor
Grey, whose knowledge of Eastern poison is unpar-
alleled, and to whose opinion I attach immense ime
portance.”
233


236
FIRE-TONGUE
sufficient to establish the murder, together with,
the report of Dr. Warwick Grey. But, meanwhile,
are we any nearer to learning the identity of the
murderer?”
“We are not!” said Wessex, grimly. "And
what's more, when I get to Scotland Yard, I have
got to face the music. First Mr. Harley goes, and
now Nicol Brinn has disappeared!”
“It's almost unbelievable!”
“I took him for a white man," said the detective,
earnestly. "I accepted his parole for twenty-four
hours. The twenty-four hours expired about noon
to-day, but since he played that trick on Stokes last
night and went out of his chambers, he has vanished
utterly."
Innes stood up excitedly.
“Your ideas may be all wrong, Wessex!” he cried.
“Don't you see that he may have gone the same way
as the chief?”
“He was mightily anxious to get out, at any
rate.”
"And you have no idea where he went?"
“Not the slightest. Following his performance of
last night, of course I was compelled to instal a man
in the chambers, and this morning someone rang up
from the house of Lord Wolverham; he is command-
ing officer of one of the Guards battalions, I believe.
It appears that Mr. Nicol Brinn not only locked up
a representative of the Criminal Investigation De-


240
FIRE-TONGUE
trusted him keenly. She knew at the bottom of her
heart that this had always been so, but she had
suffered his attentions in much the same spirit as
that which imbues the naturalist who studies the
habits of a poisonous reptile.
She knew that she was playing with fire, and in
this knowledge lay a dangerous pleasure. She had
the utmost faith in her own common sense, and was
ambitious to fence with edged tools.
When at last the car was drawn up before the
porch of Hillside, and Ormûz Khân, stepping out,
assisted the ladies to alight, for one moment Phil
Abingdon hesitated, although she knew that it was
already too late to do so. They were received by
Mr. Rama Dass, his excellency's 'courteous secre-
tary, whom she had already met, and whom Ormûz
Khân presented to Mrs. McMurdoch. Almost ime
mediately:
"You have missed Mr. Harley by only a few
minutes,” said Rama Dass.
“What!” exclaimed Phil, her eyes opening very
widely.
“Oh, there is no occasion for alarm,” explained
the secretary in his urbane manner. “He has ven-
tured as far as Lower Claybury station. The visit
was unavoidable. He particularly requested that
we should commence luncheon, but hoped to be back
before we should have finished.”
Phil Abingdon glanced rapidly from the face of


AT HILLSIDE
241
as
the speaker to that of Ormûz Khân. But her
scrutiny of those unreadable countenances availed
her nothing. She was conscious of a great and
growing uneasiness; and Mrs. McMurdoch, mis-
understanding the expression upon her face, squeezed
her arm playfully.
“Cheer up, dear” she whispered; "he will be
kere soon!”
Phil knew that her face had flushed deeply.
Partly she was glad of her emotions, and partly
ashamed. This sweet embarrassment in which
there was a sort of pain was a new experience, but
one wholly delightful. She laughed, and accepting
the arm of Ormûz Khân, walked into a very English
looking library, followed by Rama Dass and Mrs.
McMurdoch. The house, she thought, was very
silent, and she found herself wondering why no
servants had appeared.
Rama Dass had taken charge of the ladies' cloaks
in the hall, and in spite of the typical English en-
vironment in which she found herself, Phil sat very
near to Mrs. McMurdoch on a settee, scarcely
listening to the conversation, and taking no part in
it.
For there was a strange and disturbing air of
loneliness about Hillside. She would have welcomed
the appearance of a butler or a parlourmaid, or
any representative of the white race. Yes: there
lay the root of the matter—this feeling of aloofness


242
FIRE-TONGUE
from all that was occidental, a feeling which the
English appointments of the room did nothing to
dispel. Then a gong sounded and the party went
in to lunch.
A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil
discovered his movements to be unpleasantly silent.
There was something very unreal about it all. She
found herself constantly listening for the sound of
an approaching car, of a footstep, of a voice, the
voice of Paul Harley. This waiting presently grew
unendurable, and:
“I hope Mr. Harley is safe,” she said, in a rather
unnatural tone. “Surely he should have returned
by now?”
Ormûz Khân shrugged his slight shoulders and
glanced at a diamond-studded wrist watch which he
wore.
“There is nothing to fear," he declared, in his
soft, musical voice. “He knows how to take care
of himself. And”—with a significant glance of his
long, magnetic eyes—“I am certain he will return
as speedily as possible.”
Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley
had not appeared.
“You have sometimes expressed a desire,” said
Ormûz Khân, "to see the interior of a Persian house.
Permit me to show you the only really characteris-
tic room which I allow myself in my English home.”
Endeavouring to conceal her great anxiety, Phil


244
FIRE-TONGUE
sia?”asked Phil, striving valiantly to interest her.
self in the conversation.
"I do not say so,” he returned, crossing one deli-
cate foot over the other, in languorous fashion. “But
many things which are typically of the Orient would
probably disillusion you, Miss Abingdon.”
"In what way?" she asked, wondering why Mrs.
McMurdoch had not joined them.
“In many subtle ways. The real wonder and the
mystery of the East lie not upon the surface, but be-
neath it. And beneath the East of to-day lies the
East of yesterday.”
The speaker's expression grew rapt, and he spoke
in the mystic manner which she knew and now
dreaded. Her anxiety for the return of Paui Harley
grew urgent-a positive need, as, meeting the gaze
of the long, magnetic eyes, she felt again, like the
touch of cold steel, all the penetrating force of this
man's will. She was angrily aware of the fact that
his gaze was holding hers hypnotically, that she
was meeting it contrary to her wish and inclination.
She wanted to look away but found herself looking
steadily into the coal-black eyes of Ormûz Khân.
“The East of yesterday”-his haunting voice
seemed to reach her from a great distance—“saw
the birth of all human knowledge and human power;
and to us the East of yesterday is the East of to
day.”
Phil became aware that a sort of dreamy abstrar-


AT HILLSIDE
245
tion was creeping over her, when in upon this mood
came a sound which stimulated her weakening
powers of resistance.
Dimly, for all the windows of the room were closed,
she heard a car come up and stop before the house.
It aroused her from the curious condition of lethargy
into which she was falling. She turned her head
sharply aside, the physical reflection of a mental
effort to remove her gaze from the long, magnetic
eyes of Ormûz Khân. And:
“Do you think that is Mr. Harley?" she asked,
and failed to recognize her own voice.
"Possibly," returned the Persian, speaking very
gently.
With one ivory hand he touched his knee for a
moment, the only expression of disappointment
which he allowed himself.
“May I ask you to go and enquire?" continued
Phil, now wholly mistress of herself again. “I am
wondering, too, what can have become of Mrs. Mc-
Murdoch."
"I will find out,” said Ormûz Khân.
He rose, his every movement possessing a sort of
feline grace. He bowed and walked out of the room.
Phil Abingdon heard in the distance the motor re-
started, and the car being driven away from Hill-
side. She stood up restlessly.
Beneath the calm of the Persian's manner she had
detected the presence of dangerous fires. The si-


AT HILLSIDE
247
“A Rolls Royce."
“Yes.”
“Come right out.”
“My furs! my hat!”
“Something bigger is at stake.”
It was all wildly bizarre, almost unbelievable.
Phil Abingdon had experienced in her own person
the insidious power of Ormûz Khân. She now found
herself under the spell of a personality at least as
forceful, although in a totally different way. She
found herself running through a winding path amid
bushes, piloted by this strange, unshaven man, to
whom on sight she had given her trust unquestion-
ingly!
“When we reach the car,” he said over his shoulder,
"ask no questions-head for home, and don't stop
for anything-on two legs or on four. That's the
first thing most important; then, when you know
you're safe, telephone Scotland Yard to send a raid
squad down by road, and do it quick.”


THE CHASE
249
longed, the more completely to deceive him, he had
determined that the house lay not more than twenty
miles from Piccadilly.
When Mitcham was passed, and the limousine
headed straight on into Surrey, he decided that
there had been no doubling, but that the house to
which he had been taken lay in one of these unsus-
pected country backwaters, which, while they are
literally within sight of the lights of London, have
nevertheless a remoteness as complete as secrecy
could desire.
It was the deserted country roads which he feared,
for if the man ahead of him should suspect pursuit,
a difficult problem might arise.
By happy chance Nicol Brinn, an enthusiastic
motorist, knew the map of Surrey as few English-
men knew it. Indeed, there was no beauty spot
within a forty-mile radius of London to which he
could not have driven by the best and shortest
route, at a moment's notice. This knowledge aided
him now.
For presently at a fork in the road he saw that
the driver of the limousine had swung to the left,
taking the low road, that to the right offering a
steep gradient. The high road was the direct road to
Lower Claybury, the low road a detour to the same.
Nicol Brinn mentally reviewed the intervening
countryside, and taking a gambler's chance, took the
Rolls Royce up the hill. He knew exactly what he


250
FIRE-TONGUE
was about, and he knew that the powerful engine
would eat up the slope with ease.
Its behaviour exceeded his expectations, and he
found himself mounting the acclivity at racing
speed. At its highest point, the road, skirting a
hilltop, offered an extensive view of the valley below.
Here Nicol Brinn pulled up and, descending, watched
and listened.
In the stillness he could plainly hear the other
automobile humming steadily along the lowiand
road below. He concentrated his mind upon the
latter part of that strange journey, striving to recall
any details which had marked it immediately pre-
ceding the time when he had detected the rustling
of leaves and knew that they had entered a carriage
drive.
Yes, there had been a short but steep hill; and
immediately before this the car had passed over a
deeply rutted road, or-he had a sudden inspira-
tion-over a level crossing.
He knew of just such a hilly road immediately
behind Lower Claybury station. Indeed, it was
that by which he should be compelled to descend
if he continued to pursue his present route to the
town. He could think of no large, detached house,
the Manor Park excepted, which corresponded to
the one which he sought. But that in taking the
high road he had acted even more wisely than he
knew, he was now firmly convinced.


THE CHASE
251
He determined to proceed as far as the park gates
as speedily as possible. Therefore, returning to the
wheel, he sent the car along the now level road at
top speed, so that the railings of the Manor Park,
when presently he found himself skirting the grounds,
had the semblance of a continuous iron fence wher-
ever the moonlight touched them.
He passed the head of the road dipping down to
Lower Claybury, but forty yards beyond pulled up
and descended. Again he stood listening, and:
“Good!” he muttered.
He could hear the other car labouring up the
slope. He ran along to the corner of the lane, and,
crouching close under the bushes, waited for its
appearance. As he had supposed, the chauffeur
turned the car to the right.
“Good!” muttered Nicol Brinn again.
There was a baggage-rack immediately above the
number plate. Upon this Nicol Brinn sprang
with the agility of a wildcat, settling himself upon
his perilous perch before the engine had had time
to gather speed.
When presently the car turned into the drive of
Hillside, Nicol Brinn dropped off and dived into
the bushes on the right of the path. From this
hiding place he saw the automobile driven around
the front of the house to the garage, which was
built out from the east wing. Not daring to pursue
his investigations until the chauffeur had retired,


252
FIRE-TONGUE
he sought a more comfortable spot near a corner of
the lawn and there, behind a bank of neglected
flowers, lay down, watching the man's shadowy
figure moving about in the garage.
Although he was some distance from the doors,
he could see that there was a second car in the place
-a low, torpedo-bodied racer, painted battleship
gray. This sight turned his thoughts in another
direction.
Very cautiously he withdrew to the drive again,
retracing his steps to the lane, and walking back to
the spot where he had left the Rolls Royce, all the
time peering about him to right and left. He was
looking for a temporary garage for the car, but one
from which, if necessary, he could depart in a hurry.
The shell of an ancient barn, roofless and desolate,
presently invited inspection and, as a result, a few
minutes later Colonel Lord Wolverham's luxurious
automobile was housed for the night in these strange
quarters.
When Nicol Brinn returned to Hillside, he found
the garage locked and the lights extinguished.
Standing under a moss-grown wall which sheltered
him from the house, from his case he selected a long
black cigar, lighted it with care and, having his
hands thrust in the pockets of his light overcoat and
the cigar protruding aggressively from the left cor-
ner of his mouth, he moved along to an angle of the
wall and stared reflectively at the silent house.


THE CHASE
253
A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the
shadow of the distant Himalayas. Was it credible
that this quiet country house, so typical of rural
England, harboured that same dread secret which
he had believed to be locked away in those Indian
hills? Could he believe that the dark and death-
dealing power which he had seen at work in the
East was now centred here, within telephone-call of
London?
The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul
Harley would seem to indicate that such was the
case. Beyond doubt, the document of which Rama
Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession
of the late Sir Charles. Much that had been mys-
terious was cleared up. He wondered why it
had not occurred to him from the first that Sir
Charles's inquiry, which he had mentioned to Paul
Harley, respecting Fire-Tongue, had been due to
the fact that the surgeon had seen the secret mark
upon his arm after the accident in the Haymarket.
He remembered distinctly that his sleeve had been
torn upon that occasion. He could not imagine,
however, what had directed the attention of the
organization to Sir Charles, and for what reason his
death had been decided upon.
He rolled his cigar from corner to corner of his
mouth, staring reflectively with lack-lustre eyes at
the silent house before him. In the moonlight it
made a peaceful picture enough. A cautious tour of


256
FIRE-TONGUE
“What do you mean?" she cried, standing up and
clutching his arm.
“Never mind.” His tone was cool again. “Just
go back.”
“You would not— " she began.
"I never broke my word in my life, and even now
I'm not going to begin. While you live I stay
silent.”
In the growing light Naida looked about her af-
frightedly. Then, throwing her arms impulsively
around Brinn, she kissed him-a caress that was
passionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a mother
who parts with a beloved son than that which a
woman bestows upon the man she loves; an act of
ms
renunciation in low cry and wohim
she turned
He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in
his arms but, lithely evading him, she turned, still-
ing a sob, and darted away through the trees
toward the house.
For long he stood looking after her, fists clenched
and his face very gray in the morning light. Some
small inner voice told him that his new plan, and the
others which he had built upon it, must crumble and
fall as a castle of sand. He groaned and, turning
aside, made his way through the shrubbery to the
highroad.
He was become accessory to a murder; for he had
learned for what reason and by what means Sir
Charles Abingdon had been assassinated. He had


THE CATASTROPHE
257
even learned the identity of his assassin; had learned
that the dreaded being called Fire Tongue in India
was known and respected throughout the civilized
world as His Excellency Ormûz Khân!
Paul Harley had learned these things also, and
now at this very hour Paul Harley lay a captive in
Hillside. Naida had assured him that Paul Harley
was alive and safe. It had been decided that his
death would lead to the destruction of the move-
ment, but pressure was being brought upon him to
ensure his silence.
Yes, he, Nicol Brinn, was bound and manacled to
a gang of assassins; and because his tongue was tied,
because the woman he loved better than anything
in the world was actually a member of the murderous
group, he must pace the deserted country lanes in-
active; he must hold his hand, although he might
summon the resources of New Scotland Yard by
phoning from Lower Claybury station!
Through life his word had been his bond, and
Nicol Brinn was incapable of compromising with
his conscience. But the direct way was barred to
him. Nevertheless, no task could appal the in-
flexible spirit of the man, and he had registered a
silent vow that Ormûz Khân should never leave
England alive.
Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads,
and sitting down upon a grassy bank, Nicol Brinn
lighted one of his black cigars, which in times of


258
FIRE-TONGUE
stress were his food and drink, upon which if neces-
sary he could carry-on for forty-eight hours upon
end.
In connection with his plan for coercing Harley,
Ormûz Khân had gone to London by rail on the
previous night, departing from Lower Claybury
station at about the time that Colonel Lord Wolver-
ham came out of the Cavalry Club to discover his
Rolls Royce to be missing. This same Rolls Royce
was now a source of some anxiety to Nicol Brinn,
for its discovery by a passing labourer in the deserted
barn seemed highly probable.
However, he had matters of greater urgency to
think about, not the least of these being the neces-
sity of concealing his presence in the neighbourhood
of Hillside. Perhaps his Sioux-like face reflected a
spirit allied in some respects to that of the once great
Indian tribe.
His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many
a big-game expedition, enabled him successfully to
accomplish the feat; so that, when the limousine,
which he had watched go by during the morning,
returned shortly after noon, the lack-lustre eyes
were peering out through the bushes near the en-
trance to the drive.
Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom
Ormûz Khân was deep in conversation could be
none other than Phil Abingdon, but the identity of
her companion he could not even guess. On the


THE CATASTROPHE
261
“And that is?
“I agree.”
“You are wise," the voice replied. “A state-
ment will be placed before you for signature. When
you have signed it, ring the bell again, and in a few
minutes you will be free."
Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing.
Thereupon, heaving a loud sigh, he removed his
coat, looked about him as if in quest of some place to
hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded
grating, stood upon the divan and hung his coat
over the spy-hole! This accomplished, he turned.
The table was slowly sinking through the gap in
the floor beneath.
Treading softly, he moved forward and seated
himself cross-legged upon it! It continued to de-
scend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.
Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paused for
a moment to take breath. The window remained
open, as Phil Abingdon had left it. He stepped
into the room with its elegant Persian appointments.
It was empty. But as he crossed the threshold, he
paused, arrested by the sound of a voice.
"A statement will be placed before you," said the
voice, “and when you have signed it, in a few min-
utes you will be free.”
Nicol Brinn silently dropped flat at the back of a
divan, as Rama Dass, coming out of the room which


262
FIRE-TONGUE
communicated with the golden screen, made his way
toward the distant door. Having one eye raised
above the top of the cushions, Nicol Brinn watched
him, recognizing the man who had accompanied
the swooning lady. She had been deposited, then,
at no great distance from the house.
He was to learn later that poor Mrs. McMurdoch,
in her artificially induced swoon, had been left in
charge of a hospitable cottager, while her solicitous
Oriental escort had sped away in quest of a physi-
cian. But at the moment matters of even greater
urgency engaged his attention.
Creeping forward to the doorway by which Rama
Dass had gone out, Nicol Brinn emerged upon a
landing from which stairs both ascended and de-
scended. Faint sounds of footsteps below guided
him, and although from all outward seeming he ap-
peared to saunter casually down, his left hand was
clutching the butt of a Colt automatic.
He presently found himself in a maze of base-
ments-kitchens of the establishment, no doubt.
The sound of footsteps no longer guided him. He
walked along, and in a smaller deserted pantry dis-
covered the base of a lift shaft in which some sort of
small elevator worked. He was staring at this re-
flectively, when, for the second time in his adven-
turous career, a silken cord was slipped tightly
about his throat!
He was tripped and thrown. He fought fur.


264
FIRE-TONGUE
automatic into Harley's hand as the latter stood up
again.
“What do we do now?” asked Harley.
"Search the house,” was the reply. “Every-
thing coloured you see, shoot, unless I say no.”
“Miss Abingdon?”
“She's safe. Follow me.”
Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn,
taking three steps at a stride. Palpably enough the
place was deserted. Ormûz Khân's plans for de-
parture were complete.
Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to
find them stripped and bare. On the threshold of
the third Brinn stopped dead, and his gaunt face
grew ashen. Then he tottered across the room, arms
outstretched.
“Naida,” he whispered. “My love, my love!”
Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to
walk along the corridor when the sound of a motor
brought him up sharply. A limousine was being
driven away from the side entrance! Not alone had
he heard that sound. His face deathly, and the
lack-lustre eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn burst out
of the room and, not heeding the presence of Harley,
hurled himself down the stairs. He was as a man
demented, an avenging angel.
“There he is!” cried Harley—"heading for the
Dover Road!”


THE CATASTROPHE 265
Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer—the same
in which Harley had made his fateful journey and
which had afterward been concealed in the garage
at Hillsidescarcely nodded.
Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer.
Once-twice-and again, the face of Ormûz Khân
peered out of the window at the rear of the limousine.
They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And
they passed slightly ahead.
Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his
companion with an apprehension he was unable to
conceal. This was a cool madman who drove.
What did he intend to do?
Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body
nearer to the wheels of the racing limousine. The
Oriental chauffeur drew in ever closer to the ditch
bordering the roadside. He shouted hoarsely and
was about to apply the brakes when the two cars
touched!
A rending crash camera hoarse scream-and the
big limousine toppled over into the ditch.
Harley felt himself hurled through space.
"Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?" asked
Inspector Wessex, excitedly.
Phil Abingdon's message had come through nearly
an hour before, and a party had been despatched
in accordance with Brinn's instructions. Wessex
had returned to New Scotland Yard too late to take,


CHAPTER XXX
NICOL BRINN'S STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE
THE statement which I have to make, gen-
tlemen, will almost certainly appear in-
- credible to you. However, when it has
been transcribed I will sign it. And I am going to
say here and now that there are points in the
narrative which I am in a position to substantiate.
What I can't prove you must take my word for.
But I warn you that the story is tough.
“I have a certain reputation for recklessness. I
don't say it may not be inherent; but if you care
to look the matter up, you will find that the craziest
phase of my life is that covering the last seven years.
The reason why I have courted death during that
period I am now about to explain.
“Although my father was no traveller, I think I
was born with the wanderlust. I started to ex-
plore the world in my Harvard vacations, and when
college days were over I set about the business
whole-heartedly. Where I went and what I did,
up to the time that my travels led me to India,
is of no interest to you or to anybody else, be-
cause in India I found heaven and hell-a dis-
268


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 271
endeavour to obtain a glimpse of the Temple of
Fire!
“That has excited your curiosity, gentlemen. I
don't suppose any one here has ever heard of the
Temple of Fire.
"By some it is regarded as a sort of native legend
but it is more than a legend. It is a fact. For seven
years I have known it to be a fact, but my tongue
has been tied. Listen. Even down in Bombay, the
coming of the next great Master is awaited by certain
of the natives; and for more than ten years now it has
been whispered from end to end of India that he was
about to proclaim himself, that disciples moved
secretly among the people of every province, and that
the unknown teacher in person awaited his hour in a
secret temple up near the Tibetan frontier.
“A golden key opens many doors, gentlemen, and
at the time of which I am speaking I had obtained
more information respecting this secret religion or
cult than any other member of the white races had
ever collected, or so I thought at the time. I had
definite evidence to show that the existence of this
man, or demi-god-for by some he was said to
possess superhuman powers—was no myth, but an
actual fact.
“The collecting of this data was extremely peril-
ous, and one of my informants, with whom I had
come in contact while passing through the central
provinces, died mysteriously the night before I left


272
FIRE-TONGUE
Nagpûr. I wondered very much on my way north
why I was not molested, for I did not fail to see
that the death of the man in Nagpûr was connected
with the fact that he had divulged to me some of
the secrets of the religion of Fire-Tongue. Indeed,
it was from him that I first learned the name of the
high priest of the cult of Fire. Why I was not mo-
· lested I learned later.
“But to return to Vâdi, my Brahmin guide. We
had camped for the night in the shadow of one of
those giant tors which I have mentioned. The
bearers were seated around their fire at some little
distance from us, and Vâdi and I were consulting
respecting our route in the morning, when I decided
to take him into my confidence. Accordingly:
“Vâdi,' I said, 'I know for a positive fact that we
are within ten miles of the secret Temple of Fire.'
"I shall never forget the look in his eyes, with the
reflection of the firelight dancing in them; but he
never moved a muscle.
“The sahib is wise, he replied.
“'So is Vâdi,' said I. 'Therefore he knows how
happy a thousand pounds of English money would
make him. It is his in return for a sight of the
Temple.'
“Still as a carven image, he squatted there watch-
ing me, unmoving, expressionless. Then:
“A man may die for nothing,' he returned, softly.
“Why should the sahib pay a thousand pounds?'
ve


374
FIRE-TONGUE
"Moving downward toward me through the
jungle darkness, slowly, evenly, but at a height above
the ground of what I judged to be about fifteen feet,
was a sort of torch or flambeau, visible because it was
faintly luminous; and surmounting it was a darting
tongue of blue flame!
“At the moment that I set eyes upon this appare
ently supernatural spectacle the bearers, crying some
word in Hindustani which I did not understand,
rose and fled in a body.
"I may say here that I never saw any of them
again; although, considering that they took nothing
with them, how they regained the nearest village is
a mystery which I have never solved.
“Gentlemen, I know the East as few of my fellow-
citizens know it. I know something of the powers
which are latent in some Orientals and active in
others. That my Brahmin guide was a hypnotist
and an illusionist, I have since thought.
"For, even as the pattering footsteps of the bear-
ers grew faint in the distance, the fiery torch dis-
appeared as if by magic, and a silken cord was about
my throat!
"As I began a desperate fight for life, I realized
that, whatever else Vâdi might be, he was certainly
an expert thug. The jungle, the rocks, seemed to
swim around me as I crashed to the ground and felt
the Brahmin's knee in the small of my back.”


CHAPTER XXXI
STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE (CONTINUED)
TOW I managed to think of any defense against
such an attack, and especially in the circum-
stances, is a matter I have often wondered
about since. How, having thought of it, I succeeded
in putting it into execution, is probably more wonder-
ful still. But I will just state what happened.
“You may observe that I have large hands. Their
size and strength served me well on this occasion.
At the moment that the rope tightened about my
throat I reached up and grasped the Brahmin's left
thumb. Desperation gave me additional strength,
and I snapped it like a stick of candy.
“Just in the nick of time I felt the cord relax, and,
although the veins in my head seemed to be bursting,
I managed to get my fingers under that damnable
rope. To this very hour I can hear Vadi's shriek of
pain as I broke his thumb, and it brings the whole
scene back to me.
“Clutching the rope with my left hand, I groaned
and lay still. The Brahmin slightly shifted his po-
sition, which was what I wanted him to do. The
brief respite had been sufficient. As he moved,
275


276
FIRE-TONGUE
I managed to draw my knees up, very slightly, for
he was a big, heavy man, but sufficiently to enable
me to throw him off and roll over.
“Then, gentlemen, I dealt with him as he had
meant to deal with me; only I used my bare hands
and made a job of it.
"I stood up, breathing heavily, and looked down
at him where he lay in the shadows at my feet.
Dusk had come with a million stars, and almost
above my head were flowering creepers festooned
from bough to bough. The two campfires danced
up and cast their red light upon the jagged rocks of
the hillock, which started up from the very heart of
the thicket, to stand out like some giant pyramid
against the newly risen moon.
“There were night things on the wing, and strange
whispering sounds came from the forests clothing
the hills. Then came a distant, hollow booming
like the sound of artillery, which echoed down the
mountain gorges and seemed to roll away over the
lowland swamps and die, inaudible, by the remote
river. Yet I stood still, looking down at the dead
man at my feet. For this strange, mysterious artil-
lery was a phenomenon I had already met with on
this fateful march-weird enough and inexplicable,
but no novelty to me, for I had previously met with
it in the Shan Hills of Burma.
"I was thinking rapidly. It was clear enough
now why I had hitherto been unmolested. To Vadi


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 277
the task had been allotted by the mysterious organi-
zation of which he was a member, of removing me
quietly and decently, under circumstances which
would lead to no official inquiry. Although only
animals, insects, and reptiles seemed to be awake
about me, yet I could not get rid of the idea that
I was watched.
"I remembered the phantom light, and that
memory was an unpleasant one. For ten minutes
or more I stood there watching and listening, but
nothing molested me, nothing human approached.
With a rifle resting across my knees, I sat down
in the entrance to my tent to await the dawn.
“Later in the night, those phantom guns boomed
out again, and again their booming died away in
the far valleys. The fires burned lower and lower,
but I made no attempt to replenish them; and be-
cause I sat there so silent, all kinds of jungle crea-
tures crept furtively out of the shadows and watched
me with their glittering eyes. Once a snake crossed
almost at my feet, and once some large creature of
the cat species, possibly a puma, showed like a sil-
houette upon the rocky slopes above. :
“So the night passed, and dawn found me still
sitting there, the dead man huddled on the ground
not three paces from me. I am a man who as a rule
thinks slowly, but when the light came my mind was
fully made up.
“From the man who had died in Nagpûr I had


278
FIRE-TONGUE
learned more about the location of the City of Fire
than I had confided to Vâdi. In fact, I thought I
could undertake to find the way. Upon the most
important point of all, however, I had no informa-
tion: that is to say, I had no idea how to obtain
entrance to the place; for I had been given to under-
stand that the way in was a secret known only
to the initiated. .
"Nevertheless, I had no intention of turning back;
and, although I realized that from this point on-
ward I must largely trust to luck, I had no inten-
tion of taking unnecessary chances. Accordingly,
I dressed myself in Vâdi's clothes, and, being
very tanned at this time, I think I made a fairly
creditable native.
"Faintly throughout the night, above the other,
sounds of the jungle, I had heard that of distant
falling water. Now, my informant at Nagpûr, in
speaking of the secret temple, had used the words:
“Whoever would see the fire must quit air and
pass through water.'
“This mysterious formula he had firmly declined
to translate into comprehensible English; but dur-
ing my journey I had been considering it from every
angle, and I had recently come to the conclusion
that the entrance to this mysterious place was in
some way concealed by water. Recollecting the
gallery under Niagara Falls, I wondered if some
similar natural formation was to be looked for here.


280
FIRE-TONGUE
scars dancing like running water; and all around the
swooning stillness of the tropics.
“The night sounds of the jungle had ceased, giv-
ing place to the ceaseless humming of insects,
North, south, east, and west lay that haze of heat,
like a moving mantle clothing hills and valleys. The
sound of falling water remained perceptible.
“And now, gentlemen, I must relate a discovery
which I had made in the act of removing Vâdi's
clothing. Upon his right forearm was branded a
mark resembling the apparition which I had wit-
nessed in the night, namely, a little torch, or flam-
beau, surmounted by a tongue of fire. Even in the
light of the morning, amid that oppressive stillness,
I could scarcely believe in my own safety, for that
to Vâdi the duty of assassinating me had been as-
signed by this ever-watchful, secret organization,
whose stronghold I had dared to approach, was a
fact beyond dispute.
"Since I seemed to be quite alone on the plateau,
I could only suppose that the issue had been re-
garded as definitely settled, that no doubt had been
entertained by Vâdi's instructors respecting his
success. The plateau upon which I stood was one
of a series of giant steps, and on the west was a sheer
descent to a dense jungle, where banks of rotten
vegetation, sun-dried upon the top, lay heaped
about the tree stems.
"Dragging the heavy body of Vâdi to the brink of


284
FIRE-TONGUE
light of a pocket torch with which I had provided
myself, I began to ascend the steps. These, as I
have said, were hewn out of the solid rock, and
as they numbered something like seven hun-
dred, the labour expended upon the making of
this extraordinary staircase must have been stu-
pendous.
"At first the character of the surrounding tunnel
suggested that it was, in part at least, a natural
cavern. But as I mounted higher and higher,
solid masonry appeared in places, some of it dis-
playing unusual carvings, of a character with which
I was quite unfamiliar. I concluded that it was
very ancient.
"I should explain, gentlemen, that this ascending
tunnel zigzagged in a peculiar fashion, which may
have been due to the natural formation of the vol-
canic rock, or may have been part of the design
of the original builder. I had ascended more than
five hundred steps, and felt that a rest would
shortly be necessary, when I reached a sort of
cavern, or interior platform, from which seven
corridors branched out like the spokes of a wheel.
The top of this place was lost in shadows, which the
ray of my torch failed to penetrate; and here I
paused, setting down my bundle and wondering
what my next move should be.
“To the damp coolness of the lower stairs an
oppressive heat had now succeeded, and I became


286
FIRE-TONGUE
"A hundred feet beneath me was a lake of fire!
That is the only way I can describe it: a seething,
bubbling lake of fire. And above, where the roof
of the cavern formed a natural cone, was a square
section formed of massive stone blocks, and quite
obviously the handiwork of man. The bars were
too hot to touch, and the heat was like that of a
furnace, but while I stood, peering first upward and
then downward, a thing happened which I almost
hesitate to describe, for it sounds like an incident
from a nightmare.
• "Heralded by a rumbling sound which was per-
ceptible above the roar of the fire below, the centre
block in the roof slid open. A tremendous draught
of air swept along the passage in which I was stand-
ing, and doubtless along other passages which opened
upon this hell-pit.
“As if conjured up by magic, a monstrous column
of blue flame arose, swept up scorchingly, and licked
like the tongue of a hungry dragon upon the roof of
the cavern. Instantly the trap was closed again;
the tongue of fire dropped back into the lake from
which it had arisen on the draught of air.
“And right past me where I stood, rigid with
horror, looking through those bars, fell a white-robed
figure whether man or woman I could not deter-
mine! Down, down into the fiery pit, a hundred
feet below!
“One long-drawn, dying shriek reached my ears.


288
FIRE-TONGUE
no light ahead of me. Yet the reason was simple
enough.
“Since I had passed through that strange water-
gate to the City of Fire, the day had ended: it was
night. And when, finding no further steps ahead of
me, I passed along a level, narrow corridor for some
ten paces and, looking upward, saw the stars, I was
astounded.
“The yellow-robed man had disappeared, and I
stood alone, looking down upon that secret city
which I had come so far to see.
"I found myself standing in deep undergrowth,
and, pressing this gently aside, I saw a wonderful
spectacle. Away to my left was a great white
marble building, which I judged to be a temple; and
forming a crescent before it was a miniature town,
each white-walled house surrounded by a garden.
It was Damascus reduced to fairy dimensions, a
spectacle quite unforgettable.
“The fact which made the whole thing awesome
and unreal was the presence, along the top of the
temple (which, like that of Hatshepsu at Deir el-
Bahari, seemed to be hewn out of the living rock
but was faced with white marble) of seven giant
flambeaux, each surmounted by a darting tongue
of blue flame!
"Legend had it that this was the temple built by
Zoroaster and preserved intact by that wonderful
secretiveness of the Orient through the generations,


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 289
by a cult who awaited the coming of Zoroaster's
successor, of that Fire-Tongue who was to redeem
and revolutionize the world.
"I was afraid to move too far from the mouth of
the tunnel, but nevertheless was anxious to obtain a
good view of the little city at my feet. Gingerly I
moved farther forward and forward, ever craning out
for a glimpse of the buildings more immediately be-
low me, forgetful of the fact that I walked upon the
brink of a precipice.
"Suddenly my outstretched foot failed to touch
ground. I clutched wildly at the bushes around me.
Their roots were not firm in the shallow soil, and,
enveloped like some pagan god in a mass of foliage,
I toppled over the cliff and fell!”
ere


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 291
ESË
“When she saw that I was awake, she paused and
howered her head in confusion. She wore a gossamer
robe of sheeny golden silk, and, standing there with
the light of the dawn behind her, she made a picture
that I think would have driven a painter crazy.
“I am supposed to be an unimpressionable man,
and perhaps it is true; but there at that moment, as
the glance of her dark eyes met the wondering look in
mine, I knew that my hour had come for good or ill.
“This is not the time nor the place for personal
reminiscences. I am here for another purpose. One
of those accidents which are really due to the hand of
fate had precipitated me into the garden of the house
of Naîda, and she in her great compassion had tended
me and sheltered me, keeping my presence secret
from those who would have dealt with me in sum-
mary fashion, and, indeed, who were actually on the
look-out for my arrival.
“Yes, so Naîda informed me. To my great sur-
prise she spoke almost perfect English, and that sort
of understanding sprang up between us immediately
which, in the case of a man and a beautiful woman
thrown together as we were, can only terminate in
one way.
“She was some sort of priestess of the temple which
I had seen from the top of the cliff. What else she
was I very shortly learned.
"In accordance with one of the many strange cus-
toms of the City of Fire, her personal servants, of
3 E-
E
une a


292
FIRE-TONGUE
W
rather slaves, were blind mutes! Gentlemen, 1
warned you that my story was tough. Doubtless
you are beginning to appreciate the fact that I spoke
no more than the truth.
“Naida, for such was her name, told me that the
Brahmin, Vâdi, who had acted as my guide, was one
of the followers of the Prophet of Fire, to whom had
been given the duty of intercepting me. His failure
to report within a certain time had resulted in two
of the priests of this strange cult being sent out to
obtain information. That these were the yellow-
robed mendicants who had passed me in the moun-
tains, I did not doubt.
“Their reports, so Naida informed me, had led to a
belief that Vâdi had perished with me; but as an extra
measure of precaution, that very night-indeed,
shortly after I had passed that way—a guard had
been set upon the secret entrance. Therefore, even
if my strength had permitted, I should have been
unable to return by the way I had come.
“But indeed I was as weak as a child, and only to
the presence of much foliage upon the acclivity down
which I had rolled, and to the fact that I had fallen
upon soft soil in a bed of flowers, can I ascribe my
having failed to break my neck.
“In this way, gentlemen, I entered upon a brief
period of my life at once more sweet and more bitter
than any I had known. Next to that strange, in-
visible prophet whose name was Fire-Tongue, Naida


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 293
held unquestioned sway in this secret city. Her
house was separated from the others, and she trav-
elled to and from the temple in a covered litter. To
look upon her, as upon Fire-Tongue himself, was
death. Women, I learned, were eligible for admission
to this order, and these were initiated by Naida.
“As the days of my strange but delightful cap
tivity wore on, I learned more and more of the weird
people who, unseen, surrounded me. There were
lodges of the Cult of Fire all over the East, all having
power to make initiates and some to pass disciples
into the higher grades. Those who aspired to the
highest rank in the order, however, were compelled
to visit this secret city in the Indian hills.
“Then at last I learned a secret which Naida had
for long kept back from me. These followers of the
new Zoroaster were polygamists, and she was the
first or chief wife of the mysterious personage known
as Fire-Tongue. I gathered that others had super-
seded her, and her lord and master rarely visited this
marble house set amid its extensive gardens.
"Her dignities remained, however, and no one had
aspired to dethrone her as high priestess of the tem-
ple. She evidently knew all the secrets of the
organization, and I gathered that she was indispensa-
ble to the group who controlled it.
“Respecting Fire-Tongue himself, his origin, his
appearance, she was resolutely silent, a second Acté,
faithful to the last. That the ends of this cult were


294
FIRE-TONGUE
not only religious but political, she did not deny, but
upon this point she was very reticent. An elaborate
system of espionage was established throughout the
East, Near and Far, and death was the penalty of
any breach of fidelity.
“Respecting the tests to which candidates were
put, she spoke with more freedom. Those who,
having reached the second grade, aspired to the first,
were submitted to three very severe ones, to make
trial of their courage, purity, and humility. Failure
in any of these trials resulted in instant death, and
the final test, the trial by fire, which took place in a
subterranean chamber of the great temple, resulted in
a candidate whose courage failed him being precipi-
tated into that lake of flame which I have already
described-a dreadful form of death, which by acci-
dent I had witnessed.
“Gentlemen, realizing what the existence of such
an organization meant, what a menace to the peace of
the world must lie here, what dreadful things were
almost hourly happening about me at behest of this
invisible monster known as Fire-Tongue, I yet con-
fess—for I am here to speak the truth-that, although
I had now fully recovered my strength, I lingered on
in a delicious idleness, which you who hear me must
find it hard to understand.
"I have the reputation of being a cold, hard man.
So had Antony before he met Cleopatra. But seven
years ago, under the Indian moon, I learned tolerance


296
FIRE-TONGUE
“Gentlemen, those words staggered me, opening
up a possibility which had seemed only shadowy be-
fore. But Naida, who had tremendous strength of
character, definitely refused to discuss this aspect
of the matter, merely assuring me that it was so.
“Those who have successfully passed the ordeal
of fire,' she said, “are put under a vow of silence for
one month, and from moon to moon must speak to
no living creature. Therefore, once you bear the
mark of the Fiery Tongue, you may safely pass the
gate, except that there are certain signs which it is
necessary you should know. Afterward, if you
should ever be in danger of discovery anywhere in
the East, you will remember the passwords, which I
shall teach you.'
“So I was branded with the mark of Fire-Tongue,
and I spent my last night with Naida learning from
her lips the words by which members of this order
were enabled to recognize one another. In vain I
entreated Naîda to accompany me. She would
allow herself to love and be loved; but the vows of
this singular priesthood were to her inviolable.
“She exacted an oath from me that I would never
divulge anything which I had seen or heard in the
City of Fire. She urged that I must leave India as
quickly as possible. I had already learned that this
remote society was closely in touch with the affairs
of the outside world. And, because I knew I was
leaving my heart behind there in the Indian hills,


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 299
“'Well,' said he, watching me oddly, 'I know you
have travelled in India, and I wondered if you had
ever come in contact with the legend which prevails
there, that a second Zoroaster has arisen, to preach
the doctrine of eternal fire.'
“I have heard it,' I replied, guardedly.
“I thought it possible,' continued Sir Charles,
‘and I am tempted to tell you of a curious experience
which once befell me during the time that I was a
guest of my late friend Colonel Banfield in Delhi.
My reputation as an osteologist was not at that time
so fully established as it later became, but I already
had some reputation in this branch of surgery; and
one evening a very dignified Hindu gentleman sought
an interview with me, saying that a distinguished na-
tive noble, who was a guest of his, had met with a
serious accident, and offering me a fee equivalent to
nearly five hundred pounds to perform an operation
which he believed to be necessary.
“I assured him that my services were at his dis-
posal, and blankly declined to accept so large a fee.
He thereupon explained that the circumstances were
peculiar. His friend belonged to a religious cult of
an extremely high order. He would lose caste if it
became known that he had been attended by a Chris-
tian surgeon; therefore my visit must be a secret one.
“It made no difference,' I replied. 'I quite under-
stood; and he might rely upon my discretion.
“Accordingly I was driven in a car which was


300
FIRE-TONGUE
waiting to some house upon the outskirts of the city
and conducted to a room where the patient had been
carried. I saw him to be a singularly handsome
young man, apparently about twenty-three years of
age. His features were flawless, and he possessed
light ivory skin and wavy jet-black hair. His eyes,
which were very dark and almond-shaped, had a
strange and arresting beauty. But there was some-
thing effeminate about him which repelled me, I
cannot say in what way; nor did I approve of the
presence of many bowls of hyacinths in the room.
“However, I performed the operation, which,
although slight, demanded some skill, and with the
nature of which I will not trouble you. Intense
anxiety was manifested by the young man's attend-
ants, and one of these, a strikingly beautiful woman,
insisted on remaining while the operation was per-
formed.
“She seemed more especially to concern herself
with preserving intact a lock of the young man's jet-
black hair, which was brushed in rather an odd man-
ner across his ivory forehead. Naturally enough,
this circumstance excited my curiosity and, distract-
ing the woman's attention for a moment-I asked
her to bring me something from a table at the oppo-
site side of the room-I lightly raised this wayward
lock and immediately replaced it again.
“Do you know what it concealed, Mr. Brinn?'
“I assured him that I did not.


STORY OF THE CITY OF FIRE 301
“A mark, apparently natural, resembling a torch
surmounted by a tongue of fire!
“I was amazed, gentlemen, by Sir Charles's story.
He was given his fee and driven back to his quarters.
But that he had succeeded where I had failed, that he
had actually looked upon Fire-Tongue in person, I
could not doubt. I learned from this, too, that the
Prophet of Fire did not always remain in his moun-
tain stronghold, for Delhi is a long way from the
Secret City.
"Strange though it must appear, at this time I
failed to account for Sir Charles confiding this thing
to me. Later, I realized that he must have seen
the mark on my arm, although he never referred
to it.
"Well, the past leapt out at me, as you see, and
worse was to come. The death of Sir Charles Abing-
don told me what I hated to know: that Fire-Tongue
was in England!
“I moved at once. I inserted in the Times the
prearranged message, hardly daring to hope that it
would come to the eye of Naida; but it did! She
visited me. And I learned that not only Sir Charles
Abingdon, but another, knew of the mark which I
bore!
“I was summoned to appear before the Prophet
of Fire!
“Gentlemen, what I saw and how I succeeded in
finding out the location of his abode are matters that


302
FIRE-TONGUE
can wait. The important things are these: first, I
learned why Sir Charles Abingdon had been done to
death!
“The unwelcome attentions of the man known as
Ormûz Khân led Sir Charles to seek an interview
with him. I may say here and now that Ormûz Khân
is Fire-Tongue! Oh! it's a tough statement-but I
can prove it. Sir Charles practically forced his way
into this man's presence-and immediately recognized
his mysterious patient of years ago!
"He accused him of having set spies upon his
daughter's movements—an accusation which was
true and forbade him to see her again. From that
hour the fate of Sir Charles was sealed. What he
knew, the world must never know. He had recorded,
in a private paper, all that he had learned. This
paper was stolen from his bureau—and its contents
led to my being summoned to the house of Fire-
Tongue! It also spurred the organization to re-
newed efforts, for it revealed the fact that Sir Charles
contemplated confiding the story to others.
“What were the intentions of the man Ormûz in
regard to Miss Abingdon, I don't know. His en-
tourage all left England some days ago with three
exceptions. I believe him to have been capable of
almost anything. He was desperate. He knew that
Ormûz Khân must finally and definitely disappear.
It is just possible that he meant Miss Abingdon to
disappear along with him!


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FIRE-TONGUE
nizable, except for a birthmark resembling a torch on
his forehead, his head crushed and his neck broken.
“That dead man is Fire-Tongue. I should like,
Mr. Commissioner, to sign the statement."
THE END