A lonely man, of few but enduring friendships, he had admitted
but one love to his life, except the love of his mother. This one
love for seven years he had sought to kill. But anything forceful
enough to penetrate to the stronghold of Nicol Brinn's soul was
indestructible, even by Nicol Brinn himself.
So, now, at the end of a mighty struggle, he had philosophically
accepted this hopeless passion which Fate had thrust upon him.
Yet he whose world was a chaos outwardly remained unmoved.
Perhaps even that evil presence whose name was Fire-Tongue might
have paused, might have hesitated, might even have changed his
plans, which, in a certain part of the world, were counted
immutable, had he known the manner of man whom he had summoned to
him that night.
Just outside the Cavalry Club a limousine was waiting, driven by
a chauffeur who looked like some kind of Oriental. Nicol Brinn
walked up to the man, and bending forward:
"Fire-Tongue," he said, in a low voice.
The chauffeur immediately descended and opened the door of the
car. The interior was unlighted, but Nicol Brinn cast a
comprehensive glance around ere entering. As he settled himself
upon the cushions, the door was closed again, and he found
himself in absolute darkness.
"Ah," he muttered. "Might have foreseen it." All the windows were
curtained, or rather, as a rough investigation revealed, were
closed with aluminium shutters which were immovable.
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