pear to be
quite at ease.

"What is it?" inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded 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 action betokened suppressed excitement.

"He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday 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,
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 Inspector 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 an 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