The Rt. Hon. gentleman
proceeded to the House of Commons and Mr. Brinn to an auction at
Christie's. He bought two oil paintings. He then returned to his
chambers and did not reappear again until seven o'clock. He dined
alone at a small and unfashionable restaurant in Soho, went on to
his box at Covent Garden, where he remained for an hour, also
alone, and then went home. He had no callers throughout the day.'
Deliberately Paul Harley had read the report, only removing his
hand from his chin to turn over the pages. Now from the cabinet
at his elbow he took out his tin of tobacco and, filling and
lighting a pipe, lay back, eyes half closed, considering what he
had learned respecting Nicol Brinn.
That he was concerned in the death of Sir Charles Abingdon he did
not believe for a moment; but that this elusive case, which upon
investigation only seemed the more obscure, was nevertheless a
case of deliberate murder he was as firmly convinced as ever. Of
the identity of the murderer, of his motive, he had not the
haziest idea, but that the cloud which he had pictured as
overhanging the life of the late Sir Charles was a reality and
not a myth of the imagination he became more completely convinced
with each new failure to pick up a clue.
He found himself helplessly tied. In which direction should he
move and to what end? Inclination prompted him in one direction,
common sense held him back.
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