er. It was the anger of a just
man who finds himself impotent--the rage of Prometheus bound.

"Mr. Brinn!" he cried, "I accept unreservedly all that you have told me.
Its real significance I do not and cannot grasp. But my theory that Sir
Charles Abingdon was done to death has become a conviction. That a like
fate threatens yourself and possibly myself I begin to believe." He
looked almost fiercely into the other's dull eyes. "My reputation
east and west is that of a white man. Mr. Brinn--I ask you for your
confidence."

Nicol Brinn dropped his chin into his hand and resumed that unseeing
stare into the open grate. Paul Harley watched him intently.

"There isn't any one I would rather confide in," confessed the American.
"We are linked by a common danger. But"--he looked up--"I must ask you
again to be patient. Give me time to think--to make plans. For your own
part--be cautious. You witnessed the death of Sir Charles Abingdon. You
don't think and perhaps I don't think that it was natural; but whatever
steps you may have taken to confirm your theories, I dare not hope that
you will ever discover even a ghost of a clue. I simply warn you, Mr.
Harley. You may go the same way. So may I. Others have travelled that
road before poor Abingdon."

He suddenly stood up, all at once exhibiting to his watchful visitor
that tremendous nervous energy which underlay his impassive manner.
"Good God!" he said, in a cold, even voice. "To think that it is here in
London. What does it mean?"

He ceased speaking abruptly, and stood with his elbow resting on a
corner of the mantelpiece.

"You speak of it being here," prompted Harley. "Is it consistent with
your mysterious difficulties to inform me to what you refer?"

Nicol Brinn glanced aside at him. "If I informed you of that," he
answered, "you would know all you want to know. But neither you nor I
would live to use the knowledge. Give me time. Let me think."

Silence fell in the big room, Nicol Brinn staring down vacantly into the
empty fireplace, Paul Harley standing watching him in a state of almost
stupefied mystification. Muffled to a soothing murmur the sounds of
Piccadilly penetrated to that curtained chamber which held so many
records of the troubled past and which seemed to be charged with shadowy
portents of the future.

Something struck with a dull thud upon a windowpane--once--twice. There
followed a faint, sibilant sound.

Paul Harley started and the stoical Nicol