Whatever Fire-Tongue may be, its other name is sudden
death! It's a devil of a business; a perfect nightmare. But--" he
paused--
"I am wondering what on earth induced Mr. Harley to send that
parcel of linen to the analyst."
"The result of the analysis may prove that the chief was not
engaged upon any wild-goose chase."
"By heavens!" Wessex sprang up, his eyes brightened, and he
reached for his hat, "that gives me an idea!"
"The message with the parcel was written upon paper bearing the
letterhead of the late Sir Charles Abingdon. So Mr. Harley
evidently made his first call there! I'm off, sir! The trail
starts from that house!"
Leaving Innes seated at the big table with an expression of
despair upon his face, Detective Inspector Wessex set out. He
blamed himself for wasting time upon the obvious, for
concentrating too closely upon the clue given by Harley's last
words to Innes before leaving the office in Chancery Lane. It was
poor workmanship. He had hoped to take a short cut, and it had
proved, as usual, to be a long one. Now, as he sat in a laggard
cab feeling that every minute wasted might be a matter of life
and death, he suddenly became conscious of personal anxiety. He
was a courageous, indeed a fearless, man, and he was
subconsciously surprised to find himself repeating the words of
Nicol Brinn: "Be careful--be very careful!" With all the ardour
of the professional, he longed to find a clue which should lead
him to the heart of the mystery.
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