"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 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 the girl, now speaking rapidly, "or only one that I could find. I put the bureau straight again and took this paper to Sidney."
"But you must have read the paper?"
"Only a bit of it. When I came to the word 'Fire-Tongue,' I didn't read any more."
"What was it about—the part you did read?"
"The beginning was all about India. I couldn't understand it. I jumped a whole lot. I hadn't much time and I was afraid Mrs. Howett would find me. Then, further on, I came to 'Fire-Tongue'."
"But what did it say about 'Fire-Tongue'?"
"I couldn't make it out, sir. Oh, indeed I'm telling you the truth! It seemed to me that Fire-Tongue was some sort of mark."
"Mark?"
"Yes—a mark Sir Charles had seen in India, and then again in London—"
"In London! Where in London?"
"On someone's arm."
"What! Tell me the name of this person!"
"I can't remember, sir! Oh, truly I can't."
"Was the name mentioned?"
"Yes."
"Was it Armand?"
"No."
"Ormond?"
"No."
"Anything like Ormond?"
The girl shook her head.
"It was not Ormuz Khan?"
"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 dismissal?"
"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.
"Answer!" shouted Harley.
"I swear, sir," cried the girl, beginning suddenly to sob, "that I don't know! Oh, please let me go! I swear I have told you all I know!"
"Good!"
Paul Harley glanced at his watch, crossed the room, and opened the door. He turned. "You can go now," he said. "But I don't think you will find Sidney waiting!"
It wanted only three minutes to midnight, and Innes, rather haggard and anxious-eyed, was pacing Paul Harley's private office when the 'phone bell rang. Eagerly he took up the receiver.
"Hullo!" came a voice. "That you, Innes?"
"Mr. Harley!" cried Innes. "Thank God you are safe! I was growing desperately anxious!"
"I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest corners of my life! Listen: Get Wessex! If he's off duty, get Burton. Tell him to bring—"
The voice ceased.
"Hullo!—Mr. Harley!" called Innes. "Mr. Harley!"
A faint cry answered him. He distinctly heard the sound of a fall. Then the other receiver was replaced on the hook.
"Merciful Heavens!" whispered Innes. "What has happened? Where was he speaking from? What can I do?"
Chapter 13 NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR
It was close upon noon, but Nicol Brinn had not yet left his chambers. From that large window which overlooked Piccadilly he surveyed the prospect with dull, lack-lustre eyes. His morning attire was at least as tightly fitting as that which he favoured in the evening, and now, hands clasped behind his back and an unlighted cigar held firmly in the left corner of his mouth, he gazed across the park with a dreamy and vacant regard. One very familiar with this strange and taciturn man might have observed that his sallow features looked even more gaunt than usual. But for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert physiognomist must have sought in vain.
Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian leopards stared glassily across the room. The flying lemur continued apparently to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the head of the tigress where she crouched upon her near-by pedestal. The death masks grinned; the Egyptian priestess smiled. And Nicol Brinn, expressionless, watched the traffic in Piccadilly.
There came a knock at the door.
"In," said Nicol Brinn.
Hoskins, his manservant, entered: "Detective Inspector Wessex would like to see you, sir."
Nicol Brinn did not turn around. "In," he repeated.
Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval, ushered into the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland Yard man of the best type. For Detective Inspector Wessex no less an authority than Paul Harley had predicted a brilliant future, and since he had attained to his present rank while still a comparatively young man, the prophecy of the celebrated private investigator was likely to be realized. Nicol Brinn turned and bowed in the direction of a large armchair.
"Pray sit down, Inspector," he said.
The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor welcome, nor any other sentiment whatever.
Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler hat upon the carpet, and sat down in the armchair. Nicol Brinn seated himself upon a settee over which was draped a very fine piece of Persian tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes which expressed nothing but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but which, as a matter of fact, photographed the personality of the man indelibly upon that keen brain.