"Eight-twenty-five," he muttered, and glanced across to where
Naida, wide-eyed, watched him. "Admit Detective Sergeant Stokes
at eight-twenty-six, and then lock the door."
"Very good, sir."
Hoskins retired imperturbably.
CHAPTER XVI. NICOL BRINN GOES OUT
Detective Sergeant Stokes was a big, dark, florid man, the word
"constable" written all over him. Indeed, as Wessex had
complained more than once, the mere sound of Stokes's footsteps
was a danger signal for any crook. His respect for his immediate
superior, the detective inspector, was not great. The methods of
Wessex savoured too much of the French school to appeal to one of
Stokes's temperament and outlook upon life, especially upon that
phase of life which comes within the province of the criminal
investigator.
Wessex's instructions with regard to Nicol Brinn had been
succinct: "Watch Mr. Brinn's chambers, make a note of all his
visitors, but take no definite steps respecting him personally
without consulting me."
Armed with these instructions, the detective sergeant had
undertaken his duties, which had proved more or less tedious up
to the time that a fashionably attired woman of striking but
unusual appearance had inquired of the hall porter upon which
floor Mr. Nicol Brinn resided.
In her manner the detective sergeant had perceived something
furtive. There was a hunted look in her eyes, too.
When, at the end of some fifteen or twenty minutes, she failed to
reappear, he determined to take the initiative himself.
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