Brinn," he said, "I am
in an awkward corner. I know you for a man with a fine sporting
reputation, and therefore I don't doubt your word. But Mr. Paul
Harley disappeared last night."
At last Nicol Brinn was moved. A second time he took the cigar
from his mouth, gazed at the end reflectively, and then hurled
the cigar across the room into the hearth. He stood up, walked to
a window, and stared out. "Just sit quiet a minute," came the
toneless voice. "You've hit me harder than you know. I want to
think it out."
At the back of the tall, slim figure Detective Inspector Wessex
stared with a sort of wonder. Mr. Nicol Brinn of Cincinnati was a
conundrum which he found himself unable to catalogue, although in
his gallery of queer characters were many eccentric and peculiar.
If Nicol Brinn should prove to be crooked, then automatically he
became insane. This Wessex had reasoned out even before he had
set eyes upon the celebrated American traveller. His very first
glimpse of Nicol Brinn had confirmed his reasoning, except that
the cool, calm strength of the man had done much to upset the
theory of lunacy.
Followed an interval of unbroken silence. Not even the ticking of
a clock could be heard in that long, singularly furnished
apartment. Then, as the detective continued to gaze upon the back
of Mr. Nicol Brinn, suddenly the latter turned.
"Detective Inspector Wessex," he said, "there has been a cloud
hanging over my head for seven years.
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