"One day last month," he resumed, "I got out of my car in a big
hurry at the top of the Haymarket. A fool on a motorcycle passed
between the car and the sidewalk just as I stepped down, and I
knew nothing further until I woke up in a drug store close by,
feeling very dazed and with my coat in tatters and my left arm
numbed from the elbow. A man was standing watching me, and
presently when I had pulled round he gave me his card.
"He was Sir Charles Abingdon, who had been passing at the time of
the accident. That was how I met him, and as there was nothing
seriously wrong with me I saw him no more professionally. But he
dined with me a week later and I had lunch at his club about a
fortnight ago."
He looked up at Harley. "On my solemn word of honour," he said,
"that's all I know about Sir Charles Abingdon."
Paul Harley returned the other's fixed stare. "I don't doubt your
assurance on the point, Mr. Brinn," he acknowledged. "I can well
understand that you must be badly puzzled; but I would remind you
of your statement that you were also frightened. Why?"
Nicol Brinn glanced rapidly about his own luxurious room in an
oddly apprehensive manner. "I said that," he declared, "and I
meant it."
"Then I can only suppose," resumed Harley, deliberately, "that
the cause of your fear lies in the term, 'Fire-Tongue'?"
Brinn again rested his chin in his hand, staring fixedly into the
grate.
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