nique room, at once library and museum, amid relics of a
hundred ages, spoil of the chase, the excavator, and the scholar, these
two faced each other; and despite the peaceful quiet of the apartment
up to which as a soothing murmur stole the homely sounds of Piccadilly,
each saw in the other's eyes recognition of a deadly peril. It was a
queer, memorable moment.

"My question is simple but strange," said Paul Harley. "It is this: What
do you know of 'Fire-Tongue'?"

CHAPTER V. THE GATES OF HELL

If Paul Harley had counted upon the word "Fire-Tongue" to have a
dramatic effect upon Nicol Brinn, he was not disappointed. It was a word
which must have conveyed little or nothing to the multitude and which
might have been pronounced without perceptible effect at any public
meeting in the land. But Mr. Brinn, impassive though his expression
remained, could not conceal the emotion which he experienced at the
sound of it. His gaunt face seemed to grow more angular and his eyes to
become even less lustrous.

"Fire-Tongue!" he said, tensely, following a short silence. "For God's
sake, when did you hear that word?"

"I heard it," replied Harley, slowly, "to-night." He fixed his gaze
intently upon the sallow face of the American. "It was spoken by Sir
Charles Abingdon."

Closely as he watched Nicol Brinn while pronouncing this name he could
not detect the slightest change of expression in the stoic features.

"Sir Charles Abingdon," echoed Brinn; "and in what way is it connected
with your case?"

"In this way," answered Harley. "It was spoken by Sir Charles a few
moments before he died."

Nicol Brinn's drooping lids flickered rapidly. "Before he died! Then Sir
Charles Abingdon is dead! When did he die?"

"He died to-night and the last words that he uttered were
'Fire-Tongue'--" He paused, never for a moment removing that fixed gaze
from the other's face.

"Go on," prompted Mr. Brinn.

"And 'Nicol Brinn.'"

Nicol Brinn stood still as a carven man. Indeed, only by an added
rigidity in his pose did he reward Paul Harley's intense scrutiny. A
silence charged with drama was finally broken by the American. "Mr.
Harley," he said, "you told me that you were up against the big
proposition of your career. You are right."

With that he sat down in an armchair and, resting his chin in his hand,
gazed fixedly into the empty grate. His pose was that of a man who is
suddenly called upon to review the course of his life and up