have been unable to find
that he has ever taken the slightest interest in any woman other than
his mother throughout his career. Mrs. J. Nicolas Brinn is still living
in Cincinnati, and there is said to be a strong bond of affection
between mother and son. His movements on yesterday, 4th June, 1921, were
as follows:

'He came out of his chambers at eight o'clock and rode for an hour in
the park, when he returned and remained indoors until midday. He then
drove to the Carlton, where he lunched with the Foreign Secretary, with
whom he remained engaged in earnest conversation until ten minutes to
three. The Rt. Hon. gentleman proceeded to the House of Commons and Mr.
Brinn to an auction at Christie's. He bought two oil paintings. He then
returned to his chambers and did not reappear again until seven o'clock.
He dined alone at a small and unfashionable restaurant in Soho, went on
to his box at Covent Garden, where he remained for an hour, also alone,
and then went home. He had no callers throughout the day.'

Deliberately Paul Harley had read the report, only removing his hand
from his chin to turn over the pages. Now from the cabinet at his elbow
he took out his tin of tobacco and, filling and lighting a pipe, lay
back, eyes half closed, considering what he had learned respecting Nicol
Brinn.

That he was concerned in the death of Sir Charles 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 imagination he became more
completely convinced with each new failure to pick up a clue.

He found himself helplessly tied. In which direction 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 Ormuz Khan.

Just as he replaced the pencil on the table, his telephone 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