But
for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert
physiognomist must have sought in vain.
Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian
leopards stared glassily across the room. The flying lemur
continued apparently to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the
head of the tigress where she crouched upon her near-by pedestal.
The death masks grinned; the Egyptian priestess smiled. And Nicol
Brinn, expressionless, watched the traffic in Piccadilly.
There came a knock at the door.
"In," said Nicol Brinn.
Hoskins, his manservant, entered: "Detective Inspector Wessex
would like to see you, sir."
Nicol Brinn did not turn around. "In," he repeated.
Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval,
ushered into the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland
Yard man of the best type. For Detective Inspector Wessex no less
an authority than Paul Harley had predicted a brilliant future,
and since he had attained to his present rank while still a
comparatively young man, the prophecy of the celebrated private
investigator was likely to be realized. Nicol Brinn turned and
bowed in the direction of a large armchair.
"Pray sit down, Inspector," he said.
The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor
welcome, nor any other sentiment whatever.
Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler
hat upon the carpet, and sat down in the armchair.
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