connection between his death and Mr. Nicol Brinn. I simply can't fathom
what Mr. Harley was working upon. To my mind there is not the slightest
evidence of foul play in the case. There is no motive; apart from which,
there is absolutely no link."

"Nevertheless," replied Innes, slowly, "you know the chief, and
therefore you know as well as I do that he would not have instructed
me to communicate with you unless he had definite evidence in his
possession. It is perfectly clear that he was interrupted in the act of
telephoning. He was literally dragged away from the instrument."

"I agree," said Wessex. "He had got into a tight corner somewhere right
enough. But where does Nicol Brinn come in?"

"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 Burmese 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 moderately 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!"

"The message with the parcel was written upon 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!"

Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an expression of despair
upon his face, Detective Inspector 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 lif