d? Where was he
speaking from? What can I do?"

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 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.

Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not ap