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.
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