He
who claimed to read the thoughts of all men had signally failed
in the present instance, unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the
smiling face of Rama Dass. Not yet must he congratulate himself.
Perhaps the Hindu's smile concealed as much as the mask worn by
Nicol Brinn.
"We congratulate you," said Rama Dass. "You are a worthy
brother."
He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn
automatically acknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass
led the way to the door.
Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut,
his brain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest
him. He was assisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his
hands. Then, the front door being opened, he saw the headlights
of the waiting car shining on a pillar of the porch.
A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine,
and as it moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay
back upon the cushions and uttered a long sigh.
Already he divined that, following a night's sleep, these scenes
would seem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he
raised his hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly
damp.
"No wonder," he muttered.
Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his
dinner jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then,
selecting a long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram
of the late Czar of Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in
the tray, and lolling back in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.
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