ilent vow that Ormuz Khan should never leave
England alive.

Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads, and sitting down upon a
grassy bank, Nicol Brinn lighted one of his black cigars, which in times
of stress were his food and drink, upon which if necessary he could
carry-on for forty-eight hours upon end.

In connection with his plan for coercing Harley, Ormuz Khan had gone
to London by rail on the previous night, departing from Lower Claybury
station at about the time that Colonel Lord Wolverham came out of the
Cavalry Club to discover his Rolls Royce to be missing. This same Rolls
Royce was now a source of some anxiety to Nicol Brinn, for its discovery
by a passing labourer in the deserted barn seemed highly probable.

However, he had matters of greater urgency to think about, not the
least of these being the necessity of concealing his presence in the
neighbourhood of Hillside. Perhaps his Sioux-like face reflected a
spirit allied in some respects to that of the once great Indian tribe.

His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many a big-game expedition,
enabled him successfully to accomplish the feat; so that, when the
limousine, which he had watched go by during the morning, returned
shortly after noon, the lack-lustre eyes were peering out through the
bushes near the entrance to the drive.

Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom Ormuz Khan was deep in
conversation could be none other than Phil Abingdon, but the identity
of her companion he could not even guess. On the other hand, that this
poisonously handsome Hindu, who bent forward so solicitously toward
his charming travelling companion, was none other than the dreaded
Fire-Tongue, he did not doubt.

He returned to a strategic position which he had discovered during the
night. In a measure he was nonplussed. That the presence of the girl was
primarily associated with the coercion of Paul Harley, he understood;
but might it not portend something even more sinister?

When, later, the limousine departed again, at great risk of detection he
ran across a corner of the lawn to peer out into the lane, in order that
he might obtain a glimpse of its occupant. This proved to be none other
than Phil Abingdon's elderly companion. She had apparently been taken
ill, and a dignified Hindu gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez, was
in attendance.

Nicol Brinn clenched his jaws hard. The girl had fallen into a trap. He
turned rapidly, facing t