Nicol Brinn
seated himself upon a settee over which was draped a very fine
piece of Persian tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes
which expressed nothing but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but
which, as a matter of fact, photographed the personality of the
man indelibly upon that keen brain.
Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not appear
to be quite at ease.
"What is it?" inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded to light his
cigar.
"Well, sir," said the detective, frankly, "it's a mighty awkward
business, and I don't know just how to approach it."
"Shortest way," drawled Nicol Brinn. "Don't study me."
"Thanks," said Wessex, "I'll do my best. It's like this"--he
stared frankly at the impassive face: "Where is Mr. Paul Harley?"
Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar meditatively
for a moment and then replaced it in the right and not in the
left corner of his mouth. Even to the trained eye of the
detective inspector he seemed to be quite unmoved, but one who
knew him well would have recognized that this simple action
betokened suppressed excitement.
"He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night,"
replied the American. "I had never seen him before and I have
never seen him since."
"Sure?"
"Quite."
"Could you swear to it before a jury?"
"You seem to doubt my word."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. "Mr.
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