I thought I was well away from it, Mr. Harley, and you
have told me something tonight which makes me think that it isn't
where I supposed at all, but hidden down here right under our
feet in London. And we're both standing on the edge!"
That Nicol Brinn was deeply moved no student of humanity could
have doubted. From beneath the stoic's cloak another than the
dare-devil millionaire whose crazy exploits were notorious had
looked out. Persistently the note of danger came to Paul Harley.
Those luxurious Piccadilly chambers were a focus upon which some
malignant will was concentrated. He became conscious of anger. 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.
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